February 10th - One year.

Grief sneaks up on you and I have noticed through the years that it often doesn't arrive right at the exact date you expect it, nor in the way you predict it.

So much of this year has been hard, but I think that the times that really hurt were the birthday weeks. 3 weeks of birthdays, 3 little ones turning a year older, all on the same day of the week, starting with the first due date: Julie's. And that day the loss whacked me hard: all the potential, the dreams, the love she had for her amazing little girl. Her joy - "to the moon and back"and how she, all three of us really, grew in so many ways with the births of those individuals and how, like we expected them to, we expected our own lives to keep wonderfully changing.

Changing, but not ending.

And now here it is: one year. Funny, it's stuck right in the middle of the VT winter and you'd think it would be terribly dark, but it's also a time of year when the temps are warming, the days lengthening, and it's snowing a bit more. The anticipation of spring, although a long way off, tinges the cold days and is often my favorite part of the year to get outside.

It's been hard to think about where Julie was during these weeks last year. I, in fact, did not see her for almost two weeks prior to the day I was scheduled to pick up Riley for a Sunday at our house, part of a calendar of care and meals. I knew as soon as Julie got out of the hospital that there would be an outpouring of care and sign ups, but as the weeks went on, then I'd be needed again. I also needed time - the week at the hospital had been hard on everyone - unknowns, turning into knowns, becoming a battleground, then all of us trying to find space for the acceptance, the understanding, that we were going to lose her.

Especially Julie.

You did not make decisions for Julie. You gave her information, which she accepted with care, a smile, and then took it in with loving and thoughtful consideration. I can only imagine she was doing this every second of those last weeks and days.

As she surely was on that last day.

I called and arranged to pick up Riley mid morning. Came into the house, gave hugs to Julie's dad and scooped up Ri in a hug and bustle of questions of what we'd be doing that day. It was in the midst of that conversation when I walked into Julie's room and knew instantly where we were. Holding Julie's hand I chatted with her and Rick, goofed with Ri, and finally as exhaustion quickened her breathing, gave her a kiss, told her I loved her, and headed out to home and a day of typical 3 and 5yo craziness and loveliness.

That afternoon, while my munchkins took their naps, Ri and I read on the couch. Restless, Ri went to the window, looking out on Mt. Mansfield and a forest full of snow. "Kerry, what is that red animal?" I went to the window and there, glorious against the snow, was a beautiful red fox. Our dog, typically ready to defend her yard, didn't move from her bed. And the fox looked us and then gracefully, with strong, purposeful strides, ran up through the woods to disappear into the trees. "That was beautiful" we both sighed.

And then the phone rang a half hour later.

I often joke with friends who knew her well that Jules planned that day perfectly, but I honestly believe it too, as I believe that her spirit and love lives through all of us still. Perhaps too, it lived a bit in that fox, on that bright, bluebird, February day, saying goodbye, but also showing us a path we could live by too.

Be loved. Be love. She is safe.