I wish I could give this more than one green heart, I’m sorry. If I could, I would.

I had no idea what was in store for me when I read this. The tight chest, the tears. Quite different from much of your previous writings. And then I looked at the date, because my inbox has not held a word from you since May 30th. And I thought to myself, Linda Caroll never goes 22 days without writing. I don’t know why, but I think I might. So instead of speculation that isn’t meant for public eyes, I’d like to honor your words written here.

It’s funny. Spring is supposed to be the time of beginnings, isn’t it? The time for celebration that the shroud of dark — and in places — blackened, old snow, is melted by a bolder sunlight, as it creeps up sooner, then leaves us later, day by day — until today, when Summer Solstice reminds us that the earth, too, must sleep, once again.

Spring cleaning. A new beginning. A new start. Our minds so pragmatic when we begin the day. Ticking off the places that need a good thumping, cleansing, purging, and of course, the things that must go, once and for all.

And then the day changes as we settle on the floor by the box, chest, attic floor. Pragmatism falls to the way-side, and we find ourselves holding a thing; it’s only a thing, says our practical mind, our “Mistress Should,” who lives in our left mind, and whacks sentimentality with her practiced whip.

And yet. The thing is not a thing, but a symbol. A tangible symbol that holds tears of loss; holds tactile sensations that recall the fabric on your younger cheek, fingers, neck. The thing that held the once-familiar smell of your grandmother’s White Shoulders perfume — gone — replaced with the musty smell of time, and yet that smell is now conflated with White Shoulders, or perhaps your mother’s Estée Lauder.

The feel of once-soft things, now parched with age, but the memory of softness, it comforts you. Soon, a “Spring Cleaning” becomes a “Spring Remembering,” and we know, in that moment, we are all grown up.

Children yearn for spring, chanting, “no more lessons, no more books…” but as we age, spring no longer portends lazy, dog-day summers and playtime. No, for many, it means loss. At the very root, the loss of the carefree days to come when we were so young.

I lost my father in spring: April 3, 2007. Then, a year to the day later, April 3, 2008, I said goodbye to my mother. For so many, spring is fraught, and I hear it over and over from other adults: “spring used to be my favorite time of year, but now…” Now, for them, for us, it is changed again, and forever.

Yes, the earth is reborn, but we forget that birthings are painful, and come in many forms. Every loss is a birthing to a new beginning of sorts — the beginning of forgiveness, the start of living your life knowing that perhaps listening to the recording of a loving voice is much a “thing” as a blanket. Listening, and finding you can’t, until one day, you can, and then: tears.

So yes, Linda, you need a damn trunk. A good, solid, memory chest. Perhaps even an old steamer trunk; one that may already be full of so many things. And maybe now, it’s time you add your own treasures to it. They are not simply “secrets:” they are secret loves, losses, longings, dreams, rememberings, hopes, and finally, and at last, the secret knowing of the circle and cycles life brings ‘round to our lives, again and again.

May you find peace in the trunks that hold your Spring Memories. May they comfort you in times of grief and sorrow, and may your tears wet the tangible things that were made with love.

Finally, may your heart find solace in the misty, musty, faded, yet vivid-in-your-heart knowledge, that you were once, and will remain, the brightest star in the heavens of a woman whose own light twinkled, then dimmed, so that your light had room to shine on, for many more springs to come.

Peace to you, my friend.