June's Entry 🎒 The Quiet Weight We Carry

A journal entry from Stevie Parris

I didn’t notice the tulips were gone until this morning.

They used to grow wild in the corner of the garden, the gentle blue and pinks danced in the sunlight, like a butterfly in a flower field. Someone once told me they looked like wax candy. I hated those candies. But she didn’t.

I stared at the empty patch of earth for far too long, trying to remember when I last watered them. I couldn’t. Not even a guess. They were just… gone, nothing but a patch of dead dried flowers left to rot.

And standing there, all I felt was a hollow space I couldn’t name. The thought of her rotting in the ground like how I left these flowers to die… for the first time in years I burst into tears.

Four Years Isn’t That Long… Right?

It’s been 4 years. Four whole years since Angela passed.

Funny thing is, I don’t even say her name out loud anymore. Not to the kids. Not to myself. Sometimes not even in my head. It’s like if I name the loss, I’ll summon it. And I can’t afford to conjure up that level of hidden pain when I’m already drowning as is.

You’d think it would have gotten easier by now. That the fog would’ve dissipated like a beach in the afternoon. That I’d be lighter, brighter, and flying over the water watching my reflection as the wind buzzed past me.

But lately… I’ve been heavier. Slower. Distant, even from myself. I sit down and forget why I sat. I make tea and leave it steeping until it’s bitter. I walk past doors I haven’t opened in years and pretend they are just storage.

It’s not like I cry every day. Grief isn’t that dramatic. But…

It’s quieter than people think. Like a film over your eyes or a hand pressing lightly on your back. Not enough to shove you, but just enough to keep you from standing up straight. Leaving your head tilted toward the ground like you're waiting to be publicly beheaded… grim I know.

But sometimes I think I’m not even grieving her anymore. I’m grieving… me. The man I was when she was here, the loving, carefree man that would plan fun weekends with our friends. But It’s been so long I don’t know who I am anymore.

Trying to Move On Felt Like Betrayal

I’ve tried to move forward. Truly. I’ve tried drawing again, gardening with the kids, and even organizing the shed. But every time I laugh too loud, or find a moment of peace, it crashes into me like a wave…

Why am I okay right now, if she’s still gone?

I know that its not rational. But guilt doesn’t care about logic.

There’s a kind of guilt that eats away at you not because you did something wrong, but because you dared to keep living. Because you dared to imagine a tomorrow.

I have felt it every time I’ve tried to turn the page, guilt whispers in the back of my mind,

”She won’t get another chapter. So why should you?”

The Kids Don’t Know

They don’t know about her. Not really. I am sure they know there’s someone I don’t talk about. They know I go quiet when certain songs come on. They know I avoid the “pantry”. They know something is hurting me.

But they don’t know who I am grieving. They don’t even know about her… the one that created them because I’m too much of a coward to face the loss and remember her them.

Sometimes I wonder if they think I’ve always been like this. Half of me is here, while the other half is standing at her grave wishing I was in the ground next to her, better yet in the ground instead of her. But what kind of monster would I be to wish this level of grief on her. Either way sometimes I think they’ve started grieving me. Even though I’m still standing.

Three Notes on My Workbench

They left them without a word. Just slid under my coffee cup and crackers.

From Fumiko (written in four colors of marker):

“Hi Dad. I saw you standing outside today looking at the dirt. I think there used to be flowers there. You looked sad, but also like you were not really there. I miss when you were here more. You used to sing while cooking and it made me feel safe. I don’t know where you go. But I miss that part of you. Just wanted to tell you that.”

From Minato (folded like a mission report, labeled ‘Urgent – Private Eyes Only’):

“Father. Observation: you spend more time alone in the garage lately. Conclusion: something’s heavy on your mind. Unknown variable: is it something we did? If yes, please let us fix it. If no, maybe we can help anyway. We may not know everything, but we know when the house gets colder and it has been colder.”

From Rika (a torn sketchbook corner, words soft but steady):

“I remember hearing you whisper once to yourself when you thought no one was near. You said: ‘It’s okay for remembering to hurt, because it’s the only way you can remember it was real.’

You said it like it was something someone once told you. I don’t know who it was about. But maybe it still helps hearing it again. Because even if we don’t know what you lost… we still love who’s left. Please don’t go so far away that we can’t find you anymore. -love Rika”

I Didn’t Cry. But I Sat There for a Long Time.

Long enough for the sun to shift. I opened the old door I’d kept locked for 4 years. The one I always said was full of junk. It wasn’t. It was our office. Our shelves. Her old sweater still hung on the chair like she’d just stepped out to grab a tea.

I didn’t open every drawer, I couldn’t bear to touch anything. But I took a deep breath. For the first time in months, I breathed in the memory of her. And it didn’t break me.

It just reminded me.

A Truth I’d Forgotten

I remembered something she used to say something I once whispered without even realizing:

“It’s okay for remembering to hurt, because it’s the only way we can remember it was real.”

She said it after we lost our first garden. After the storm swept everything away. She said it as if she knew all too well the pain of remembering. I should have asked her then about it. When she was sick, she said it to me again when I was at a loss for words. I didn’t know it then but I think… maybe she said it for this too.

I Was So Lost, I Didn’t Notice…

I didn’t notice the whisperings between the kids. Didn’t notice the dirt under their fingernails. Didn’t notice Fumiko watching me in the garden that morning, watching me stare at an empty patch of earth like I was waiting for something to come back, watching me cry into the dirt and dried flowers. But he noticed. And he told Noriko.

And Noriko, with all his quiet curiosity and soft-eyed planning, made a decision. He asked Rika what seeds were usually in that part of the garden. She remembered the colors that used to grow there: blue and pink tulips, a little overgrown, always tilted toward the sun. She was always remembering the little things.

And so, with the help of his brothers and sister, they replanted what had once been mine. Not because they understood it. But because they saw what I had become. And they missed me.

The Surprise I Never Saw Coming

I woke up late one morning. Walked past the window, the one I always pass on the way to the kitchen to start my day. And then I froze. There, glowing under the pale sun, were tulips. Baby Blue and pastel Pink. Glistening with dew. So impossibly soft it almost hurt to look. I opened the door slowly. Stepped into the yard like I was walking into a memory. I whispered without thinking, stepping forward like a zombie being controlled by the lust for blood and barely whispered more than a breath.

“Angela…” But before I could take another step, they jumped out laughing, covered in dirt, holding a little watering can like it was a trophy.

“Surprise!” they yelled. I turned, stunned, and Rika explained:

“We noticed you were quiet a lot. The house felt cold. So we thought maybe the flowers would help.”

Minato added, like it was all part of a mission:

“We coordinated a full replant operation. I did the signs. Rika picked the colors and flower type, while Noriko did the digging. All because Fumiko said he Saw you crying here. Fumiko just smiled and took my hand. I don’t think they’ll ever understand what they gave me. They didn’t just bring back her favorite flowers. They gave me permission to remember.

That Night, After They Went to Sleep

I went into the office. The room I hadn’t entered in over 4 years. This time, the air didn’t strangle me. This time, I didn’t look away. I sat in her chair. Let my hand brush the sweater still draped across the back. Let the silence wrap around me like a blanket instead of a threat. And I breathed. Not in sadness. Not in despair. Just… in memory.

Angela was real. And I still am too.

The tulips are blooming. And I am still here.

— Stevie Parris

If You’re Carrying Something Quiet

If you’ve been living in the stillness.

If your grief has blurred into guilt.

If you’ve been afraid to move forward by leaving someone behind…

This is for you.

You’re not wrong for feeling heavy.

You’re not broken for still aching.

And you are not alone.

When You’re Ready, Here Are 3 Gentle Questions

Write. Whisper. Think. Or simply hold them close.

1. What part of myself have I locked away because it hurts too much to remember?
   
   

2. What would it look like to honor their memory by living fully and not just surviving?
   
   

3. If they could see me now, what would they want for me?