Are there parts of grief that you never expected? That took you by surprise, because let’s face it, grief is not something one usually spends a lot of time thinking about until you’re living it.
For me, it was the grocery store. Several weeks after Mike died, I finally made it to the grocery store. No big deal. A usually simple task. Until I got to Aisle 4. It was the Hamburger Helper aisle. It was my son’s favorite food ever since I can remember. Even as an adult, if he was having a late night at work he’d say, “mom, can you whip me up some hamburger helper?” As I walked past the Hamburger Helper, it dawned on me I’d never make it again. My heart broke yet again, right then and there.
Suddenly, the store felt unusually heavy. Every aisle seemed to hold a memory. When I reached aisle 4, the sight of those familiar boxes hit me like a wave. I stood there, frozen, staring at the rows of Hamburger Helper, as if expecting him to walk up beside me and remind me that Lasagna was his favorite. It wasn’t just his absence that overwhelmed me—it was the presence of everything he left behind, every moment that would never happen again. So right there on Aisle 4, I became a sobbing mess.
As I stood in the aisle, tears streaming down my face, I felt the weight of my grief shift in unexpected ways. It wasn’t just sadness—it was an aching gratitude for every small, mundane moment we had shared. The purchase of boxes of Hamburger Helper were not grand gestures, but they were ours. They were part of the rhythm of a life now broken, never to be mended. Grief has a strange way of turning the ordinary into the unbearable.
The rest of the trip was no easier. The produce section reminded me of Mike’s love for grapes. The bakery brought back the mini blueberry muffins he was obsessed with. In the frozen food section, it was the pizza rolls and bagel bites. Things I would never pick up for him again. Each aisle unfolded another layer of memory, as vivid as if he were still at home waiting for his goodies. By the time I reached the checkout, the lump in my throat had become a companion I couldn’t dislodge. For all that grief had taken, it had also given—an aching awareness of just how full my life had been with him in it. I paid for my groceries and walked back to the car. The ordinary task of shopping had been transformed into an intimate act of remembrance. Those aisles were now a tapestry woven of the memories of a life that once was.
Now, 7 months later I can zip through the store, get what I need and get out. Still, there are moments when the echoes of those early trips return—not as crushing waves, but as quiet ripples that remind me of what was. A flash of a familiar brand might tug at a thread of memory, yet the sting has softened. It’s as though the aisles have learned to whisper instead of shout, and I’ve learned to listen without unraveling. Grief doesn’t disappear, but it weaves itself into our routines of life and becomes part of the backdrop. The store is now a bittersweet blend of sorrow and solace that walks with me, even as I keep moving forward.
Lynn
Living With Child Loss
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