A Storm of Grief

The summer storm we had this afternoon seemed to reflect the emotions we have been feeling since Marilyn's brother Mo disappeared.  We found out late on June 6 that Mo had been missing since June 3.  Then followed twelve agonizing days, days of talking with patient and skilled county detectives, of looking at satellite maps to plan a search of the nearby tree lines, and walking some of the tree lines ourselves with Marilyn's younger brother, John, and sister, Kate, who flew in from Virginia to help.  And not finding Moey.

This afternoon’s storm felt like it arrived suddenly—like Moey’s disappearance.  The wind whipped the lavender and tore through the trees.  And then the rain came.  Heavy, loud rain that temporarily flooded flower beds where the soil had been caking in the dry heat.  It was a relief.  The noise, the strength of it, the disruption of it felt like the news of Mo’s death.   

We received that news, like the news of his disappearance, also after ten at night, also while sitting on the couch, up past our usual bedtime because Marilyn was off from work.  This phone call brought relief and heaving sobs.  The not knowing had ended. 

But so had the hope.  He really was gone now.  The detectives had found his body in the woods--not the woods we'd been searching in--during a training exercise, and he had died by suicide.  He had chosen to leave.  We could no longer imagine him walking up his driveway one day and getting in his truck.  He was gone.

The storm today left the air cool, the plants drenched.  I’m hoping it’s a metaphor for our grief.   Maybe, after this storm we are in, where sometimes the tears are so many, we can’t see, maybe after this, we will find peace like the cool air after the rain today.