Purple was her favorite color. If there was something with a purple option, she bought it. Her air fryer was purple. She wrote with a purple pen – at her office, the pen in her purse, the one in the magnetic holder on the fridge with a notepad. Purple was her color.
The first time I ever painted my toenails purple was the day before her funeral. I went to a nail salon for probably only the third time in my life to treat myself to a mani-pedi to try to partake in some self care after days of earth-shattering heart break. The manicurist tried to talk me into a gel or acrylic because the plain polish alone was going to come off in a few days. “I just need to make it through my mom’s funeral tomorrow,” I snapped after my repeated refusals were ignored. The rest of the manicure continued in silence.
Red is my color. Before that pedicure I had two colors of nail polish on my toes for over 20 years. A tangerine pink in the summer (because it makes tanned skin look even more tan) and red all the other months. But since that pedicure and that funeral, purple has worked its way into the rotation. By the time of the anniversary of my mother’s death, my summer polish has worn and grown enough that I could use a refresh, though it’s not quite time for the red. So for the past four years, I swipe on a lilac purple on my toes.
And I cry.
I give myself permission to be sad. To miss my mommy. To grieve so hard it’s difficult to breathe. To be so mad at God it’s impossible to pray. To then pray for the souls in purgatory. To make the meal that reminds me of my mom no matter that means boiling water in a house without AC on the hottest day of the year and swallowing pure butter and carbs and fat and be ok that it won’t bring her back and it won’t heal the hurt, but it’ll allow me an excuse to talk about her to my babies who remember more about her than she ever dreamed they would.
I give myself permission to be happy. Some years this day doesn’t bring me to my knees in a puddle of gasping sobs. I can embrace the day and enjoy everything that the world my mother gave me has to offer. To be thankful for the gifts she gave me and my family just by being Mom and Meemaw. To live the life she looked forward to me having even if she couldn’t be a part of it.
We carry grief in a million different ways. There is no “right” way to grieve or to honor a loss and even if it “worked” yesterday it might feel hollow today. Some days my purple toenails make me smile. Some days they make me cry at the drop of a hat. But either end of the spectrum and everything in between are perfectly okay.