TOO MANY GOODBYES
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When I began writing memories of my Appalachian childhood and recording stories of my family less than two decades ago, there was no way that I could have foreseen the death of almost every relative in just a short period of time. I grew up in my grandparents' house, living together with my very young teenage mother, Pauline, along with my aunts, Betty, Juanita, and Mary Ann, and my cousins, Jimmy and Pete. My grandparents had a small farm in Northeast Tennessee, in a tiny town called Fall Branch. It was named after a secluded waterfall, hidden from sight behind a grove of deciduous trees. Our house was always filled with people, related by both blood and friendship. I am struggling to understand how in the middle of my life, in my 50's, I am staring at the last third of it, clan-less. I belong to no one. And no one belongs to me.
On April 17, 2020, my 24-year-old son was murdered. This happened at the end of a 13 month period where I endured the loss my mother after a long illness, the suspected suicide of my younger brother, and the abrupt end to an 11-year relationship with a partner that I still adore.
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So, the majority of the huge family that gathered together every Sunday afternoon to share food, story, and laughter, is no longer on the earth. This blog is an attempt to make sense of the magnitude of loss that I carry every day in my heart. I hope that these musings will reach and comfort others who also find themselves mired in the thick and unyielding muck of grief.
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The power of story is the only thing that has ever comforted me. Story is how we live amongst each other and honor all that we love . Thank you for joining me on this incredible journey. We are truly walking each other Home.
~ Jan
