The Butterfly in the Garden

It has only been thirteen months since my mom died. 

Last year, when I asked her what she wanted to make us think of her out in this world, she said that it is very personal/individual, but that she always liked butterflies and hummingbirds. This made sense in more ways than one: she and my dad had lived on Hummingbird Lane, so those were already special in some way since he died in 2017. Furthermore, for the year and a half that my mom lived here with my little family, we spent many hours in the garden watching butterflies flit through.

              The love of gardening flows through every molecule of my DNA. My parents raised my sisters and I tending rich gardens full of all manner of produce. Truth be told, I see the gardens of my childhood in my dreams to this day. My grandfathers did the same: both tending gardens as far back as I could remember. The final summer before my dad died was spent with him stopping by to walk the short distance around the little L-shaped garden in my backyard, dispensing tips, advice, and encouragement. I only had eight straw bales that year, I think, but it was “huge” for my little family and I. We only did four bales each the two previous years, and just a pot or two of tomatoes on the patio before that. I was *so* proud to be growing a variety of vegetables, fruits, and tomatoes and to send him home with lots of goodies for him and mom to share. That garden became symbolic of my personal connection with my dad.

              That’s why I threw myself wholeheartedly into the garden of 2018. I planted the seeds on his death date with my mom and daughters. They sprouted on the day we brought his ashes home. (He had gifted his entire anatomical donation to research/medical education, so his body was out in the world for another year past his death.) With my mom living with us, she and I spent *so* many hours together out on the patio and in the yard. Gardening, my connection primarily with my dad, was now deeply intertwined with my mom and with our individual yet shared grief journeys.

              My mom died last year in peak garden season. The day she died, I cried and cried out in the garden. The morning after, I died. I couldn’t fathom taking care of it the rest of the year. It was so big that I couldn’t tear it all down, even when the timing was appropriate. It took me (alone) around half a dozen tries to thin it out, and even more with my husband and daughter. I remember by the end; all I wanted to do was rip it down.

              When this spring showed up, I had no desire to return to gardening. I had spent the winter months receiving lovely comments from friends and family that they couldn’t wait to see my garden: my garden was always a source of interest and joy. I was so touched, very sincerely, by that. I tried to explain that my heart was not in it this year. At most, I could only talk about attempting a much smaller garden – if any. When the time came, I was so lost in grief and felt so dead inside. The grief journey following the loss of both parents has been rife with complicated decisions and other factors. In the end, it came down to wanting a BLT made with fresh tomatoes and, primarily, not wanting to let down the friends who were looking forward to seeing the next garden season. I’ve never planted a peer-pressure garden before, but even my closest friends seemed to feel that doing the garden anyway would honor my parents and make me feel better. I had one dear friend who I felt really ‘got it’ and I appreciated that *so* much.

              I decided I would get even fewer straw bales than I had been. Two years ago, I had twenty-five bales. Last year there were sixteen. This year, only ten. One of those ended up not joining the garden, thanks to a local pair of ducks and their abandoned egg. That’s another story for a different day. <3 I decided to focus as much as possible on flowers. I was desperate to get those butterflies and hummingbirds around so I could see my mom again – feel her here in my home and in my yard. (Disclaimer, I know they would not be “her”. That is not going to stop me from saying things this way. Get over it.)

              I planted flower bulbs, Chris and the girls bought me loads of lovely flowers for Mother’s Day, and we waited. I decided to buy plants from the farmer’s market rather than grow any, then changed my mind at the last minute and started a paltry few seeds in pods. I was terribly late in the season: late enough for it to almost not even matter. Even so, my precious Christopher dutifully set up the bales. He and Ninna worked together over the course of two weeks to condition the bales, then both did the bulk of the planting. Through it all, I felt depressed, stressed, heavy, and trapped in the “new grief” stage.

              Despite my lack of enthusiasm, my depression, despite my daughter hitting her new teenage phase and excusing herself from gardening, despite inconsistent watering, and an overall wish that I did not even have a garden – it grew. The garden grew, the flowers grew, the spring turned into summer, and everything began to produce. We got to share the fruits of our labor with just two precious friends this year and, in that sharing, I found some peace. It is a joy to give, but now it was also very comforting. <3 Best of all, they showed up: more bees than we have had in a very long time, two female hummingbirds, and butterflies: my, we’ve had so many lovely butterflies.

              They came in all sizes and colors, the butterflies. Every species that has ever graced my yard in the past fifteen years came by to flit around and sip from flower after flower. Each one warmed my soul and brought me peace.

    We hung a hummingbird feeder on the bedroom window, so I could watch for “her”. She showed up with increasing frequency, sometimes bringing a friend with her. She would show up with an empty stomach and eat until she was as fat as a plump grape. We hung a second feeder out in the garden in the archway. (Pictured above) Many times, they would come buzz right near my head to examine me before going off to eat. My hair was still cherry red, and it was important for the wee hummingbirds to assess whether or not I was a flower. lol

Google Image: Website cited below

     “She” came in the butterflies, and I would call out, “Hi, Mom!” every time one flitted near me.
But I assigned to her name to her very favorite: a female swallowtail that was such a deep black with lovely crystal blue accents on her skirt. I knew it was her because she flew into and around inside my lilac bush in front of my bedroom window. I have spent the past two or three weeks reveling in her appearance: delighting in her antics among the bush and the flowers. She made my heart lighter every time I saw her. In all this time, I forgot something very important: she will die. Rather, I knew she would die, but I forgot that it may be possible for me to witness the end of her life. She hung around so much that I should have realized this.

               This past weekend was the end of everything. I could not physically bring myself to put effort into the garden any longer. My mom was dead. My dog died. My duck died. We were in a drought and yet water is at a premium right now: we’ve had to use it sparingly. I can’t make up for a drought. I had done my duty: I grew the garden. I made the customary vegetable pizza and BLT (albeit a truly different kind of task this year, since my top teeth have all been removed). It was time. I was ready. The garden that I had thrown myself wholeheartedly into when dad died - and which had sustained me – only served to worsen my grief and deepen my depression after my mom died. I couldn’t take it anymore. And so, I told Chris we would be ripping it all out this past Saturday.

              We woke early that morning, choosing again not to bring anyone but our dog outside with us. The day would superheat again, so we needed to work early and fast. It felt sincerely good out there in the coolness of the morning. I found adrenaline that I’ve been lacking all year, so eager was I to take it all down. I brought my phone and played the Instrumental Hymns and Worship Radio station on Pandora for us to listen to. The music flowed gently, naturally – soothing my soul. My heart was lighter, my mood joyful when it began to play softly in piano solo: “Because He Lives”. In an instant, I was a child in my bed upstairs. Downstairs, the piano began to thrum. My mom. She did not play often, and she usually kept to the same few songs, but we would occasionally get that rare and unique chance to listen to her play her heart out on the piano. It was beautiful.

              I began to cry. No, I began to sob. Big, deep pangs of grief-stricken pain that had throttled me and affected my breathing were now being towed from my chest as one might haul heavy chains backward repeatedly, drawing them from the sea, as the beautiful song played over the radio ap on my phone. I lamented my regrets into Chris’s shirt as he held me: all yard work suddenly paused. This is how it is with grief, of course. One holds it in as best possible while it wells until some seemingly small thing overfills the glass and it all spills out. Like always, he held me as long as it took. I cried, I snotted, and then I pulled myself together not long after the song ended. Somehow or another, my grief did not ruin the morning. The garden was the right place for it, after all. Here where my dead parents simultaneously blessed and haunted my memory, it was fitting to remember her and them and us and all we had shared. This was where my grief belonged, and so I watered the garden a final time with my tears and then resumed the work of pulling it down.

We were nearly done when we saw her: this big, beautiful butterfly. I thought she might be the Black Swallowtail female. The Linda butterfly counterpart to my little Linda hummingbird. She floated gracefully across my neighbor’s yard and then ours, dipping and swirling into and out of tight loops and wider arcs. While she was still in Debra’s yard, I told her, “Come see me!” She immediately flew directly at and then over me. My mirth overflowed into laugher, Chris chuckling with me at her “obedience”.

              She danced around a bit and then landed in front of us. I pulled out my camera, eager for pictures and videos. Autum was imminent, after all. Butterflies don’t last forever. In the fresh morning sunlight, I realized that she was brown. This was a big, brown butterfly. It didn’t make sense. My eyesight isn’t what it was, and I asked aloud, “Who is she?” She took back to wing, swirled around the two yards again a bit, and came back to land on the final remaining tomato plant we had left at the back of the yard. I quickly snapped pictures, zooming in so I could see her.

              My heart broke in an instant. This *was*, indeed her. The beautiful, big, graceful Linda butterfly that had been delighting me in the yard every day. She was brown now, as the soft black velvet began to shed from her wings. Wings which, once so perfect and lovely, were now tattered and ratty along the edges. Crestfallen, I realized that awful truth: not that she would die, but that *watching* her die was a very real possibility. Images of my mom in her final hospital room intruded, sharpening the moment. Everything dies.

              We got back to work after she flew off, my mood somewhat dampened.  The Lord knows all things, of course, and He so often uses music in ministry to His children. One of my two favorite hymns came on: “In the Garden”. We laughed again, Chris and I. He did so much work, moving here and there and rearranging flowerpots as I turned my attention to deadheading. I did my best to nip off dying leaves, but end-of-season flowerpots always look a bit sparse and tired. He arranged them around our little Coco’s resting place. She deserves flowers, bless her little heart. I trimmed the rose bush back, as well, freeing up the little fence that surrounded my lilac to be used elsewhere. Chris positioned the doghouse to one side of it, and I a little board to the other. Once we had finished as much busy work as we could, we decided that it was officially “too hot” and now time to go inside.

That afternoon it rained.

And I mean it really rained. Thunder made an appearance first, growling here and there like a child with a tantrum. I couldn’t believe my ears. We hadn’t had rain in only too long. Plus, the sky was still bright.  Skeptical, I kept my eyes on the windows. Within an hour or so, thunder turned to rain. Doesn’t that beat all? lol Here we here in a drought and the bales of the garden could accurately be described as dry and crispy for lack of attention and water. We pull the garden down and *now* it rains? I had to laugh.

              Today is Monday. It sprinkled a drop or two on Sunday, and today it literally rained all day long. All day! It hit me at some point that I couldn’t be upset even if I wanted to (I did not) because in my gardening-resistant grief process this year, I had hit the point where I had quit praying for rain: truly, I hadn’t even thought to do that in quite a while. Now I really had to laugh! lol

              I understand that I have written a novel by now: five pages on Word. I did not mean to do that. My intention was to write a single page on which I could neatly fit pictures of what the black swallowtail should have looked like (from Google, since I had not caught her on my camera before this – choosing to simply enjoy her presence) and how she looked at the end of her life in the end of this painful gardening season. I feel like there are parallels to the process of losing my mom last year and then losing her all over again this year when I couldn’t even muster up the joy we shared in the garden: only the grief we had shared there.

Oddly enough, I do not intend to sound so morose in this post. I know people don’t like it when we openly share just how hurt we really are.  There is still this expectation that Christians should be finding the silver lining at every moment of every day. I’m not trying to sound like a sad sack. Rather, I’m being open about my grief process precisely because it *is* so lonely. Everyone who loves you wants you not to hurt anymore, and so the pain can be somewhat isolating. As with the good, there are moments – heavy moments. Here in my blog, I am giving space to those.

And, while it sounds sad to have seen the butterfly in her dying state, it in some way neatly pins shut the entire season. While I am not yet to the point with my mom (or dad) where I can simply be glad I had them and not feel their losses so utterly deeply, I *can* choose - and am choosing - to be grateful that I had the butterfly to delight me while she was alive this season.  Somehow or another, that gives me hope.

Black Swallowtail Butterfly link from the Google image result shared above.

When I Die/Funeral (and a vent sesh)

My mom died last August. Following her wishes, we had a private funeral service for her. She requested her children/grandchildren and mentioned two aunts she thought might like to attend. She was a very private person who wanted her immediate family to come together and was not concerned with what anyone else thought. 

People reacted in different ways. 

Her friends were sad but understood. One of them has been so sweet and reaches out to me every so often.

A friend from church sent a lovely flower bouquet and reached out. Other church friends surprised me with an armload of gifts for my first birthday without my mom (just over a couple of weeks after she died). 

A few core friends (from life and from my church) have been here for me any time I need to talk about how I miss my mom and have asked how my grieving is going.

My mom's sister has taken us all under her wing and has been an angel sent from God. She bears out the definition of family in ways I would never ask from her, as she has her own children and grandchildren. I am so grateful for her. 

Someone I previously thought of as my very best friend didn't even notice that my mom was dying. I saw her online a few times while I was going through and openly talking about this experience - a 41-day process where we were railroaded with the freight train of dying and death out of nowhere. It broke my heart that she didn't notice. I was also concerned that she might tell me to have my mom believe herself back into wellness and life. Given how violently her pancreatic cancer was dispatching of her body, I didn't feel like I could bear to be told that my mom could heal herself by simple faith. I know that miracles can happen, but that is not the case for most people. It seems cruel to me to make a person's death their own fault. I didn't reach out privately, she didn't notice publicly, and I felt like I'd lost a friend. 

Unlike when my dad died and cards came rolling in expressing sympathy, my final parent passed and the world of people who *should* notice the most went dark. This was true across the board for at least three out of four of us siblings who received no cards, no calls, and no flowers. It is like my mom's life didn't even matter. I'm not someone who likes attention, but it is shockingly noticeable when the compassion of others - particularly family - is absent. 

My mom was a pastor's wife and gave up so much of her life helping so many people across different states. She complained plenty as she got older, but she still did her very best to fulfill her Christian duties. Why didn't her life and her efforts matter? 

Most of my dad's family fell silent, other than to announce her death and share her obituary online. The silence demonstrated a lack of empathy, leaving a gaping chasm that was impossible not to notice.

One aunt reached out to me with love and concern. 

The rest did not.

Uncles did not reach out, though I realize that men are naturally far less likely to do so.

My grandfather never reached out, though he must have said something to another sibling bc he and another aunt (who also went silent on my end) *did* try to make it to her service. Unfortunately, life circumstances prevented that. 

One cousin cared enough to tell me she loves me and is praying. She felt helpless to provide comfort. I understand that, feeling the same way myself with any other person's loss. It is so hard to know *what* to say, but she at least demonstrates love/caring.

There was another cousin who offered sympathy within a day or two of her death, then spent the rest of the phone call ragging on my mother being a terrible person. I found that both sad and inappropriate. She actually had the nerve to then demand that we ignore my mom's wishes bc the funeral was not for her - it was for the people who would attend/say goodbye. I'm still not sure to this day what to make of a person who apparently hated my mom demanding that we provide a funeral service for them to attend. 

It wasn't just me who noticed and was affected by the deficit of caring. Other siblings also noticed and mentioned the striking lack of any response. It was glaring and obvious. Was it about the funeral? Was it about who my mom was as a person? Her funeral was not held until her the weekend nearest her birthday, to ensure that as many children/grandchildren could attend as possible. Her death was announced right away. I am forever grateful to the people who commented that they loved and missed her. My question is, why didn't our family do this? Where were they? Where are they to this day?

Eight-ish months later, I and my sibling were discussing our mom and mentioned again how noticeable the silence was. Still somewhat shocked, I went back and reviewed my FB posts and my private messages and texts to these people, our family. I wanted to make sure that in the moments of deepest grief, I hadn't simply missed something.

Nothing.

Not a comment on the announcements of her death or even on the posts of her obituary. Not on my page. Not on my sibling's page. Not a single comment to say, "I'm so sorry and I am here if you need me."

Silence.

In a bizarre twist, one silent aunt recently lost her husband and a week later was sat on my couch for companionship and comfort. I have long adored this uncle and I am deeply, sincerely sorry that we were not able to attend the funeral (which happened during my husband's work hours). It just threw me that she called out of the blue the next weekend from what she thought was my front yard, asking to come in. 

She who couldn't be bothered to as much as comment on the loss of my mother sat on my couch a week after the death of her husband. I felt so sad for her loneliness, so brokenhearted for the pain she must feel over losing the love of her life, and so baffled as to why she would come to me for comfort she had never offered. I still feel baffled. lol I am not offended, upset, or insulted, but I certainly feel confused.

One cousin had mentioned prior to my uncle's funeral that she hoped people would show up for his wife. I said that it is hard to tell, and mentioned that only three people out of a family over a hundred strong bothered to say anything when my mom died. (This was the first time this fact has ever been vocalized outside of myself and my siblings.)

Her response was to ask if I thought might be because my mom was married in/not part of the biological family.

I pointed out that, even if that is the case, *we* siblings are all cousins/nieces: we are all blood relatives. There was no reply to that, of course. 

Bear in mind that that point would not stand anyway, because the uncle who passed was also married into the family. More - the man is *my* literal blood, too. My mom's uncle married my dad's sister. I have DNA on both sides of that marriage. That fact has nothing to do with the conversation, but it does crack me up. 

When my husband and I married, it was apparent that some in his family operated in the same way as those in mine: if you're not blood, you've no value - or have decreased value, at the very least. I don't operate this way. I never have. My parents never did. They always loved our husbands as if they were their own born sons. So, idk. I know the world works this way sometimes, but I personally find it a very ugly outlook.

This one-sided loyalty has caused me to keep on the perimeter of my dad's family for a number of years. My grandfather has mocked me from the time I was the tiniest of children. He has never spoken to me with sincerity. He grilled my husband about me in ugly ways as a young adult. I am the one who used to make a point to call my grandparents over the years. I've never received a call. I made a point to visit after we moved out-of-state whenever we were in town (though I briefly stopped doing that for a short period years ago after a rather scary uncle moved in with him). I resumed, of course. I do love my grandfather. Our visits are far apart, but that is because I literally do not have the funds to go anywhere. It isn't as if I am out here taking vacations and ignoring family, or something. (Which I also believe people have the right to do, don't get me wrong. I'm just not doing that.) 

It doesn't bother me that he doesn't visit or put any effort into me. This is the status quo for our relationship and has never impacted me emotionally in a negative way. I think sometimes when people acknowledge uncomfortable facts, the reader can infer offense or anger where none exists. I'm not sure how to accurately imply that I am making a point without malice that there are no hurt feelings here, just shock. We are all still bewildered. 

My granddad had surgery not too long ago and I was approached by three aunts (two of whom, remember, never acknowledged the death of my mother) who all urged me to call my grandfather because he was supposedly pretty desperate to apologize for not talking to me more at my daughter's graduation party two years ago. 

Huh? 

What?

He had mentioned this to everyone but me for two years, but couldn't manage to figure out how to reach out to me? lol

I remember the party. I remember telling the cousin I am closest to that I was nervous about him coming bc I was afraid he was going to yell at me in public. (This is a long-established habit he has.) 

I told her at the time that he does not love me, and that I am okay with that, but that I just don't want him to yell at me publicly at my daughter's celebration. (He didn't, by the way. I was surrounded by friends and kept busy during the party. He looked me over with that mocking expression a few times, and when he came to say goodbye, he squinted his eyes and looked like there was something he was *not* saying, but he gave me a hug and was on his way. I was completely relieved and overall thrilled over how the day went.) 

So, back on track, here we are two years later and my aunts are randomly urging me to call him so he can apologize for something that did not happen and had never bothered me. I'm curious as to why this is *my* responsibility. 

One aunt pointed out privately that she didn't have my phone number. Okay, but the other two do. Beyond that, he *is* my friend on FB. 

Again... one-sided loyalty. One-half of the relationship is duty-bound to the other. He has thoughts I didn't know about for two years, has literal access to me every single day on at least one social outlet, and I am somehow responsible for making sure to call the man so he can unburden himself. I found it so confusing and unnecessary, but I obliged anyway. 

My point in saying any of this is that two of the aunts stressed to me the fact that "he loves you". Hmm. My only opinion to this day is that they said that bc they had learned and discussed the fact that I do not believe this man loves me. (face-palm)

Anyway, enough rabbit trail. I just have so many questions about why my family is the way it is. When we were young, we were always nearby and participating in family events. We helped set things together and helped clean things up when so many of the others never did. As an adult, my grandfather travels to visit the grandchildren he cares about. That is not me and never has been. Now that he is closer every year to Heaven, we are apparently resuming the family pressure for me to venerate him... and yet, the man has to date not said a single word about my mom dying. I just saw him a week ago when I traveled over to my hometown for a visit. Same thing - not a peep about my dead mom.

One sibling feels grieved that my mom didn't get to at least have her friends attend the funeral service so that they might see how sincerely we loved her - complicated human being, or not. (My mom was really good about complaining. She threw anybody and everyone under the bus regularly.) By asking us not to give her a public service, it was felt by at least one sibling that perhaps it would come across that any complaint or outright lie she had ever made about us would be proven true. :( I can understand that concern. Personally, I do not know these people. And, if they knew how my mom treated her own children privately, I have to think they would extend grace for the times she lied about us. 

I remember a cousin losing his stepdad (whom he purported to hate) not too long after we lost our dad (our hero). I remember how my baby sibling would rale about the fact that he had "no right" to pretend to miss a man he hated. (Ironic, now that said sibling is doing the same thing.) My thought at the time was, and remains, that a person will grieve however they grieve, and that is none of my business. The stance hasn't changed, though I have separated myself from witnessing the "grief" of a sibling who worked *so* hard to make my mom feel hated and unwanted. They have the right to do this. I have the right not to be a party to it. I'm through witnessing a separate public persona from the private truth. 

I digress.

My point is this: the entire situation has made me ponder my own choices. Specifically, what I want for my own remembrance. 

I have said for *years* that I do not want a funeral. I hate the fact that a family has to put themselves on display publicly when they've just gone through one of life's most painful processes. There is nothing private about death, whatsoever. I so very desperately want privacy for my husband and children. 

But... given the fact that people seem to equate their ability to care about you with your ability to provide them a "goodbye", do I want my husband and children to be treated so heartlessly during their time of grief? I do not. I do not want my personal discomfort at being viewed to impact their access to the love and support of others.

So, now I have to amend my wishes. I will retain the desire to be cremated. I so very sincerely hate to be looked upon. Turn me to pulverized bone dust, please. 

I've long told my husband and our children that I want them to surround themselves with the people they personally find comforting. I still maintain this. Don't feel obligated to let anyone and everyone come by if you feel overwhelmed. 

That said, if they do feel the need to hold a service, please do. Plop my urn on the table and do whatever brings you peace. 

If you do this, include a "remember when she" segment so the ridiculous stories of my life can be told. I want you to laugh. My goodness, how I want you to laugh. I've laughed through my pain for 43 years now. Please do me the favor of laughing. <3

The truth about families is that they are complicated. I love each member of mine, but I've gotten to the age where I no longer want to protect people from experiencing personal responsibility. Stand by what you say and how you act, whether or not that has impacted someone else. 

Above everything else, I hope and pray that people do so much better by my husband and children than they ever did by me. In the meantime, I am done walking down one-way streets, or at least as done as I possibly can be. May we all find peace in this life. 

2024 Summary

 2024 did not see further updates or even a seasonal wrap-up online about my garden. I honestly cannot tell you how many tomato varieties we ended up with, This is understandable, as my mom's cancer thundered in and swept her right out from under us. The rest of my time in the garden was largely spent pondering the freight train that had blown through my life. Worse, as the garden season waned I was in the midst of grief and in no mental state to keep watching living things die around me. We took it down in stages: thrice I went out there by myself and just ripped and hacked away mercilessly at the long, vining plants. One weekend, we set our minds to finish and brought it to the ground in seventeen massive lawn trash bags. 

I remember that we had lemon squash until I became impatient with it growing all over my patio and tore it down somewhere mid-season. I was nonetheless pleased that squash bugs did not get it. My tatume squash left to hang until they yellowed came out looking like pumpkins, just as I had hoped. My little Koala's actual pumpkins stayed small but were a fun and welcome addition to the Candy Day festivities. She carved her own home-grown pumpkin this year, which felt great. 

We made a point of going to the zoo as often as we could swing the money to rent me a scooter. I was beyond caring what people think of a big mama on a scooter. I needed out and my back cannot manage walking without seizing up. The aquarium at the zoo especially became my place of comfort. Grief turned to relief every time I could sit quietly watching the fish in the largest tank. Family time with my husband and kids infuses my very being with relaxation and comfort I cannot find elsewhere. 

We took advantage of trips running the work truck back and forth to the warehouse to listen to good music and grab Pie a little treat here or there. My big girl was in a better headspace, as she continued to grow into her adult infancy. Having her around on her days off has been an immense pleasure. 

We celebrated the upcoming Christmas season by doing whatever we felt, at the time. Shopping became a coping mechanism; one I will be paying off for quite a while. Yikes. Even so, it felt good to bring gifts into the house and plan for the girls' merriment. 

Seasonal depression showed up, of course, but was kind of hard to discern from the natural depression grief brings along. I've struggled less in some ways and more in others. 

Here we are, already in March of 2025. I realized today that I will be expected to write about my garden plans soon. Fair enough. Just know that they have been reduced in size to accommodate my grief and hopefully boost my mental wellness.