All the relaxation and calm I had stored up from summer vacation had disappeared within the first few days of the new school year. Sitting with my colleagues at the Minneapolis-Saint Paul airport, my stomach whirled around as I stared at the Chili’s menu. Nothing appealed to me, but I settled on a breakfast taco. Plastic spoons and forks had replaced the metal eating utensils, and there were no knives anywhere. Picking at the tortilla shell with my plastic fork I realized how the terrorists had changed every part of our lives. The thought of a Bloody Mary or screwdriver passed through my mind, but I hoped the early morning pill would squelch the anxiety storm brewing inside of me.

            Gray skies and a hotel in the middle of nowhere greeted us in Cincinnati. During the continental breakfast before the first session, I spied Jane and waved to her. We wound our way through the crowd and hugged. She tipped her head to the side, looked me in the eye and asked how I was doing. “Great,” I answered, which was a lie. The session started with a memoir study with the trainer reading children’s books to us about death and loss. Not my favorite topic. I looked forward to the morning break, hoping a tray of chocolate chip cookies would be waiting for me.

            The first night alone in my room, I stared out the window at the full moon’s glimmer on the Ohio River. I thought of all the sunrises and sunsets John and I had enjoyed together. The warmth of his arms wrapped around me. My life felt more settled now than a year ago, but the loss still followed me everywhere. Nothing magical had happened at the end of the first year of grief. John was still gone. Instead of a 50-yard dash, my journey through grief seemed more like a grueling marathon that required endurance and strength to reach the finish line.