Last Friday’s morning walk was more of a skate over the four inches of ice-crusted snow that remained from the Big Storm a couple weeks ago. My boots barely left a imprint, despite the spiked cleats I’d strapped over the soles to give me some traction insurance against a trip to the ER (for all my maternal Dutch heritage, Hans Brinker I ain’t). I was temporarily taller, walking across this mini tundra, and it was unsettling to come upon familiar trees along the path, their smaller branches now at perfect eye-poking height (especially a sweet little apple tree at the northern mouth of the meadow. I greet her each time I pass by, patting her trunk and whispering words of encouragement). I minded my head and honed my ducking skills as the walk unfolded into an amateur remake of The Matrix. I arrived back at the house intact and fall-free, not a bruise anywhere. A helpful ending to a packed week.

Vacation was simply lovely, my first long one since last June. Oh, I’d take the odd Friday off here and there, but nothing like this stretch of eight workdays with a couple of weekends in between. I was the embodiment of unbridled enthusiasm. Save for a brief bout of Sunday night wistfulness and anticipatory land-and-home separation anxiety, I remained in an emotionally steady place of even-tempered gratefulness as Monday’s morning routine crept closer. Not everyone has a job to go back to, much less one with meaning, purpose and hilarious teammates. I landed in a re-accreditation survey my second day back in the office (Joint Commission, for those of you who know this level of scrutiny) with a review of my department’s operations that afternoon. We passed with flying colors and praise for our success in retaining the majority of our volunteer workforce during the pandemic, and the organization received a preliminary overall rating of 96%.

It was a quiet victory though. In the span of two weeks (while I was on vacation), two of our beloved and veteran volunteers passed away somewhat suddenly, leaving distinct and gaping holes in the tapestry of our team. It was—and still is—surreal to return to the office and see the pile of mail Zane would have couriered to our nearby inpatient unit…the volunteer workroom schedule with Fran’s name on the block of time she filled every other week. Slogging through emails, double-checking our Joint Commission binder for evidence of compliance, handling the daily stream of new volunteer applicants…all distractions for a time until a moment of silence would catch one of us sitting down, just staring unfocused but unable to look away from the empty place at the table. When you’re gone from the workplace for that stretch of time, you expect a few things to be different, but it’s hard to say goodbye to someone when the ground is frozen and you weren’t prepared for the farewell. When did I see Zane last? What did Fran and I talk about the last time I saw her? For both of them, I have the comforting reassurance that laughter was involved. I shall hold onto that.

Since that Big Storm dumped over six inches on our chilly corner of central Ohio, temperatures have swung between melting and freezing, leaving our driveway a splendidly treacherous ice rink that’s shrinking daily in barely noticeable increments. Main roads are clear, thank heavens, but stories of impassable sidewalks and driveways continue to pepper our between-meetings conversations at work. I think grief is like that sometimes. We move between extremes in a context of contrasts, searching for that leveled-off place that appears now and then. There’s still work to do, relationships to nurture and walks to take; we navigate the terrain as best we can, relying on our shared memories to provide some much-needed traction as our feet traverse the icy patches. Tumble we will, and perhaps even sprain something, but we’ll get back up and point our hearts toward the next season on deck. Fran and Zane did that, in the small slice of their lives I was privileged to share.

When I make the bed in the morning’s darkness after Patrick has left the house, I watch out the upstairs window to see that he crosses the bridge without sliding off into the half-frozen waters below, and I keep watching as he navigates the hill before his taillights disappear into the rest of his commute.

Somewhere, in the meadow, is a tree, dreaming of summer’s apples.