For years, my Mom and Dad had a large picture of me hanging in the hallway. It was my high school graduation portrait, courtesy of the local photography studio. My Mom was a preschool teacher and arranged for the studio to come to her school every year to take portraits of her students.  When it finally came time for me to have my senior pictures done, they gave her an oversized, beautifully framed print, perhaps as a way of thanking her for bringing them so much business.

I never thought much of it.

Except, a few days ago, as we started the process of clearing out my Mom’s house, I realized something.

There is nobody left on the planet who would treasure that big picture of me from high school.

No one.  

Not my kids. Not my other relatives. Heck, I didn’t even want it. I never liked the picture that much to begin with. I had an unfortunate 80s hair cut, long in the back but mullet-like on top, one that took years to grow out.

Still, it made me sad.  It’s sobering to realize that all the people who knew you first are gone, that nobody is left who will ever cherish you in that way again.  If we are lucky, our parents and grandparents, our elders, gift us with a love that is deep and profound and impossible to duplicate. When they are gone, that love and all their stories and memories go with them.  I should have realized it was coming, but I never thought of it. The fact that there are no longer any old people in the world who love me? It’s sobering. This loss has left me feeling alone in a way I’ve never experienced before.

Here is another truth, though.

Love never dies.  I was blessed to be loved by two remarkable parents, and their love has stayed with me. I still feel it today.

But the question remains: what to do with that huge portrait?

I told my husband just to throw it in the dumpster. We had a big one that we’d rented. It was already full of expired food, old mattresses,and broken down chairs that my Mom didn’t mind sitting in but that no one else wanted.

I was crying as I said this, though.

Wise man that he is, he figured out another option. He removed the ornate frame, and slid the print into an old photo album which we brought home and put in the bookcase.  It takes  up a lot less room that way.  And knowing that it’s there makes me happy. Not because I love the photo, but because it reminds me of my parents, and a time that is past, and of their love which remains.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my “Word for the Year.”

I’d love to encourage you, my five faithful friends and best readers, to pick words, too, or to share your words if you already have them. There’s space down below in the comments section if you want to do that. Someday,  I will figure out how to let comments post on the site without having to be approved by me first. I know it’s annoying to wait for approval.  There must be a way to fix that, but I haven’t managed to do it yet.

Anyway.

I think that a “Word for the Year” should be special somehow. I’d shy away from utilitarian, goal-oriented words, like “discipline” or “success.” Also, I’d avoid words that would hang over you in a glowering, threatening way.  Think “willpower,” “fitness,” or “budget.”  Your “Word for the Year” should shimmer and shine. It should make you happy.  And in some magical way, trust that it’s not entirely up to you. Some people believe that the Word actually picks them.

Also, ignore any voices that tell you it’s too late to pick a “Word for the Year.” That you should have picked your word by January 1, 2018 like everyone else.  The truth is that it’s never too late.  Also, it’s OK to change your word mid-year if that helps you. If your first word stops working, if it feels like it’s moved on and left you, and it’s August 1, that’s OK. Go ahead and grab another one.  Who says you can’t have different words for different months or different seasons?

This year, my word came quickly.  Even now, when I say it to myself, I feel better about everything. About my Mom’s death. About the struggle to clean out her house. About my new haircut that may be a little shorter than I wanted. I don’t have any tattoos, but I might consider having this word etched on my wrist or ankle. That’s how much I love it.

My word for 2018?

Hope.

Just hope.

How I love hope.

Last year, there were days when my hope had run out.  We knew my Mom was sick, and barring a miracle, there was no way she was getting better.  All we could do was walk with her through her final months.  The hope that I had then was hope for the next life, the life to come. This is all well and good, but it didn’t take away my deep sadness.  It was hope, but it was  brutal.

This year, I am realizing on a deeper level that my Mom is gone and that we will never be together in this world again. So it seems strange that hope would be the word that would come to me. But it did. I saw it, and loved it, and felt so much better, just sitting with it. I had no choice; it picked me.

Hope is a bright light: shining and comforting. Hope is a cup of Trader Joe’s Winter Wake Up Tea in the morning.  It is Panang Curry from the Thai Garden restaurant.  It is water with lemon. It is a walk with a friend. It is going for a five minute run. Even five minutes. Hope says that five minutes is a great start and that it is enough.  It is planking for a minute and doing 20 push ups a day. It is writing 500 words and not worrying about whether they are good.

Hope is the people who have shown up these past few months and who keep showing up. Hope sits on the couch with me and reads a book. It doesn’t say, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Hope walks into the room, puts on an apron, and gets to work, even if I’ve told it that I’m fine, that I don’t need any help.  Sometimes, hope is quiet. Sometimes, it sings a song. I need to move toward people who give me hope, toward people who light me up and who are lit up themselves.   If you have read this far, you probably are one of those people for me.

This year, I want to run after hope. Wherever it is I want to be. I want to watch for it.  Sit with it.  Follow it. Listen to it. Risk for it. Wrap it around me like a soft fleece blanket. I want to live into the hope that things can change. That I don’t have to fall into the same ruts this year.  Hope starts small. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t disappoint . And in the end, along with faith and love, hope is what remains.