I have not written here in quite a while. I guess it's because my grief is ever changing and I don't seem to need this outlet as much as I once did. But when the mood strikes me, I'm going to use this like I once did more frequently. 

I am returning home from a long and glorious weekend in Arkansas with Uncle Pat, Aunt Helen, Danny, Lori, Parker, Susie and Chris. It was a Barry weekend, alright. We drank until the wee hours of the night, listened to good music, ate delicious food, hung out on the boat and told stories. It's always hard for me to have a vacation end. I don't want to come back to my obligations (which are actually small in number) and I want the fun to continue. I also have this super weird transition time between ending my vacation and settling back in at home. This transition time is way less enjoyable after Andrew's death, as I don't come home to anyone anymore. 

I'm writing here though because I had an interesting experience on my flight home. I was on a small regional jet and sat next to a family from England. This is significant because this weekend I spoke in a British accent to Parker. Specifically, the word "water" was repeated. Often. Within 5 minutes of the family sitting down the little boy began demanding water. It was ironic. But I also think it was a sign. Maybe a little one from Andrew, maybe not. But it did put a smile on my face. And I ended up speaking with the father for almost the entire flight. We talked about travel, gun control, teaching, his mother and why she's his inspiration. I haven't chatted this long with a stranger for a LONG time. I used to do back when I didn't have a smart phone. I talked to strangers ALL the time on flights. But lately it has been way less common. One thing I noticed while speaking to this man was how badly I wanted to tell this man that Andrew was dead. I spoke about "my husband" in the past tense mostly, but I never specifically stated that he was no longer alive. I haven't had one of these conversations in quite some time. Where I have to explain that my husband is not alive. It's a shitty convo to have and I'm thankful that they don't come up often, but today for some reason, I wanted to have it. 

This is what's strange about grief. It is always there, sometimes it's muted and other times it is a nagging pain. I'm beginning to feel less and less connected to Andrew as time goes on, which is the scariest part of this all. So I'm going to choose to believe that that little boy saying "water" in a British accent and a wonderful man who enjoyed shooting the shit with a stranger was a little sign from Andrew saying , "I'm always here." <3