I wasn’t surprised as I’ve felt so confident and content over the last couple of weeks–particularly since adding Kalpurnia Kismet to my family that it might be followed with a grief burst. But this time it was brief. (brief burst?) Again in my meditative spot in the front yard as Kallie frolicked and a long-needed thunderstorm rumbled closer, I couldn’t help but wish Ken were there sitting beside me, watching her play and listening to the rolling thunder grow louder. But it’s impossible to watch my fluffy, ebony pooch and not be present in the moment. She is equal parts touchstone, compass and fearless explorer, eager for experiences of all magnitude.

(Unimpressed of the bright flashes of light or cracks of thunder, Kallie donned a “bring it” attitude for the oncoming storm.)

This time of year–more than any other, I think, brings Ken to my mind. Unrelated to his death or soiree, it was summer when we enjoyed our back yard, his then-overflowing-garden and each other. It’s the Fourth of July where we sat out back for five years and listened and witnessed the myriad illegal fireworks in the neighborhood. It’s this weather and the sameness of so many things that leave me stunned that we didn’t sit back there just last year enjoying the heat, noise and revery. But that it was two years ago–after his surgery and first round of chemo–when we rejoiced probably more than any other Independence Day, as it signified a very special one for both of us at the time: his independent from cancer (or so we hoped.)

I should have known the other day as I put up the frame for the canopy in the back yard, full of forced cheer and determination, knowing for the first summer ever, it wouldn’t be offering its shade to Ken from the high summer sun as we sipped dirty martinis together. I pushed through as I set it up alone, negotiating acrobatically through my own stubborn thoughts and memories, trying to be in the “now,” in “my” garden, “my” back yard.

That I’d successfully maneuvered through the anniversary of Ken’s death, my birthday and our wedding anniversary relatively unscathed should have been a warning to me–and it was, of sorts. I’m intimately familiar with the yin and yang of how grief works for me. I know it’s not possible–for me, anyway–to manage so much goodness without any measure of sorrowful payback. And so it goes.

Along with her “bring it” attitude, I suspect I have more lessons to learn from Kallie, and I’ll gladly be her willing student.