Wind

Steve and I would often joke that Frisco is the windiest place in all of Texas.

In February 2002, we stood at the top of the hill on mostly empty Hidden Creek Lane, staring at a model home that we'd fallen in love with. My hair whipped around wildly. Baby Cooper's jacket didn't provide enough warmth. And yet we smiled (though not too widely, for fear of dirt getting in our teeth). We felt comforting peace about the contract we'd just signed to build our home.

Over the years, we happily endured more windy days near that hill -- at the playground and the pond. On walks together. On separate runs (oh, it's a tough hill to run up). On a snowy day when neighbors gathered and shared a makeshift sled.

I've driven that hill hundreds of times -- while Steve was healthy, while he was fighting cancer, after he died. Not until today, a windy day in December 2010, did I drive by that very spot and feel a flood of tears in my chest.

Something about the sky and the weather and my missing Steve at that very moment made me think of younger Steve and Tyra -- unsure of our future neighbors and the unbuilt elementary school and our commute downtown and so much more and yet confident that we were making the right decision.

I cried on the rest of my drive home and as I pulled into the garage and as I walked through the back door and set my purse on a chair. These grief moments blow through like unexpected bursts of wind. They are bearable because of comforting peace that is more powerful than sorrow.