Life feels merry.

Andy told me last week, after the Michigan game, that he sat, high above the fifty yard line, and shed a few tears.  Not because he was sad; actually quite the opposite.  He went on to explain that his happiness seemed to trigger some guilt, the fact that he could care about football again felt callous.  We've come to expect grief to turn an ordinary moment into a gut-wrenching memory or to twist joy into anxiety. 

The past few weeks have been full of happy celebrations.  Thanksgiving led to a Buckeye victory and on to Tolliver's first birthday, and December has already seen tree shopping, a church pageant and a charity ball.  Things feel very merry.  Until suddenly they don't.  When we least expect it, something like fried chicken or hand-me-downs or the cereal aisle at the grocery store brings a wave of sorrow.  Certain things seem to scream she's gone and make us wonder whether we're having too much fun without her.

At the end of the gift of another great weekend, I want to wrap it up.  Partly for myself, in a saving-forever wistfulness, but more to give it away, a big bow on top, for somebody else.  Because I know there are people who wish for this, for a simple normal, for a typical average.  We were those people, and those feelings were especially strong during times of celebration, during holidays full of tradition.  The idea of giving some of our happiness away lessens a bit of the guilt for feeling so much of it lately.
JEB