Just like anyone living with grief, mine comes in waves. Sometimes my waves are forceful and they will knock me over. Other times my waves give me a little push when I’m not expecting it.

 

Lately, I’ve been hit by both. There are the waves that don’t completely make me lose my balance and knock me over, but that give me just enough of a push to make me plant my feet a little stronger in order to stay standing. Then there are the strong ones. The waves that take my feet out from under me. 

 

It’s that time a year again when planning gets kicked into high gear for Police Memorial Week, which is in May. Several local, state and national memorials take place during May to honor fallen officers.

 

It’s that time of year when my mailbox is inundated with invites to upcoming ceremonies, breakfasts and lunch gatherings, dedications, etc. all honoring Mike. Don’t get me wrong, it is indeed just that… an honor.

 

 

It’s also a little push from that wave that is almost strong enough to knock me over.

 

Often, during the planning of various events, I am asked for pictures. Pictures of Mike, our family, Mike and our boys.

 

This is the wave that knocks me over. It makes me lose my balance, get carried under the water and drug through the sand. I eventually surface,  spitting out the salt water, trying to catch my breath and taking days to wash all the sand out of my hair.  

 

This particular wave of grief makes time stand still.

 

I look through the pictures and they are all the same. There are no new ones to share. The boys are little. They don’t look the same as they do now. Some of the last pictures they took with their dad include missing teeth, character tshirts, tiny little bodies and baby faces. 

 

 

Now they are on 2nd rounds of braces, they are about to pass me up in height and most shirts they wear are either their favorite sports team or favorite memorial shirt made for their dad.

 

They keep growing and maturing, but time stands still in pictures. They will forever be little boys in any pictures with their dad. Their dad will forever be only 34 or younger in any picture they have of him.

 

In pictures, as of June 14, 2016, time has stood still.  

 

That wave knocks me over.

 

So how can I try to keep myself standing strong when the waves hit?

 

I cherish these pictures. I remember how blessed we are to the have them, baby faces, missing teeth and all. I am thankful that my boys were old enough, in a lot of pictures, to be able to remember these times with their dad.

 

We also try to incorporate Mike into pictures we take now.

 

It may be writing in the sand on a special trip.

 

 Wearing something special of his. 

 

 
Or eating his favorite ice cream. 

 

 

Always including him, even as time moves on and through all the different waves of grief.