The little things…

It is Sunday. For many, many years, Sunday afternoon our kids were home, we had a big Sunday meal together, and then we watched a movie. And every time, Sam would fall asleep watching the movie, and snore. He could snore louder than anyone, and that includes me, a master snorer.

As the kids have grown, our Sunday afternoons have gotten quieter. When our youngest is home from college, he joins us for a meal and a movie, and sometimes our oldest son does as well. If it’s just the two of us? We don’t usually do the big meal, instead opting for snacks, and watch a movie or something together.

Sundays are the hardest day of the week for me since Sam died. The only time he didn’t do the meal-and-a-movie was when he was at UVM, and even then, he often got a ride (or took the bus) home for the day. I miss hearing him come slamming through the front door, asking what was for lunch, usually dragging mud in on his shoes or even on his bare feet. Then he would regale us all with what he had seen, heard, learned, tasted, or just plain experienced since we’d seen him last.

I miss those conversations. I miss the mud. I miss him taking out the ketchup and pouring it over almost any meal. I miss the arguing over what movie to watch. I miss hearing him pick on his brother about setting the volume on the TV to an even number. I even miss the snoring.

Grief is funny. Sometimes it’s the big things that hit me really hard, like birthdays or holidays. Sometimes it’s the little things, like not hearing snoring on a Sunday.

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