This morning when I turned on my computer, a notification from Outlook popped up to remind me of upcoming events on my calendar. Take ring to Littman’s for inspection. Mom and dad’s anniversary. Ashley’s birthday. The typical events I’m prone to forget or get fuzzy about the exact date, which I’ve set up to give me a two-week lead time in order to buy a gift or mail a card. And there it was.

Grandmom’s birthday.

The first major holidays after a death are obvious emotional landmines, and while anticipating this and preparing for it can help, it doesn’t remove the stinging sense of loss one feels at a loved one’s absence from rituals that are familiar and meant to be joyous. But, personally, I have been more thrown by the small moments that occur unexpectedly and catch me unawares – not the fact that her birthday is coming, which I did not forget, but the calendar reminder of it that was created to remind me to buy a card and some candy and plan a night at the nursing home. It is these reminders of what daily life was and is no more – what was normal and would now be extraordinary – these ghosts in the mirror – that stun me with the sharpness of their sting.

While shopping the clearance racks a few weeks ago I came across a beige flannel nightgown decorated with cardinals. I had considered buying it for Grandmom for Christmas months prior but never got the chance. I stood in the clothing aisle, my heart racing, suddenly flooded with guilt at the remembrance that for the last Christmas we did spend together, I hadn’t bought her a present. And I had lost the chance to make it up with that cozy nightgown.

At the start of the new year when I worked through my budget, I still had allotments on the spreadsheet for her birthday and Christmas gifts. I couldn’t bring myself to delete them for weeks.

The list goes on and on.

For my parents, I imagine they still receive mail with her name on it. See her soap in the bathroom. Know the jewelry in her armoire is organized the way she designed; the pieces laid in place by her hands. See her picture on the photo stream in their phones.

For some, it may be the last email lingering in the inbox. Plans to attend an event now missed. A final text message that will never get a reply. An item, given as a gift, that makes its way back home to the giver.

Grief has so many subtle shades. “I Can’t Bear to Remember But I Don’t Want to Forget” is a particularly hideous color.

These moments can make you feel as though your progress has stalled, or even that you are starting over from square one, but it is important to remember that grief is not a linear process. You will progress, stall, and even step backwards at times. All of this is normal and, ironically, a part of moving forward. Remember that mourning is not a road to a destination, but rather a journey. Acceptance is not an endpoint when the pain goes away. It is a state of mind, like many others, which will come and go.

I want to say that one day these reminders won’t hurt, but I can’t. I think the best they can hope to become is bittersweet – bringing a smile at the memory along with the cut. These ghosts are everywhere, but take comfort in knowing that you are not alone in the haunting. I see them, too.

Experience the world of 1908 and get a glimpse of Victorian death customs in my novel, The Persistence of Vision, available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle.

Read more at LisaGery.com