What Love and Loss Taught Me About Appreciating the Now

What Love and Loss Taught Me About Appreciating the Now

I think I’m mourning a time that doesn’t exist anymore, nostalgia at its finest.

Every Sunday, without fail, my parents would load us up and take us to my grandparents’ house for dinner. My aunt and cousins would be there too. Before we ever made friends at school, our first friends were each other.

We spent entire days outside, sun on our skin, time stretching endlessly ahead of us. We swung on those old metal swing sets that got too hot in the summer, ran barefoot through the yard, and made our own fun. I remember digging under the flowerpots beneath the big oak tree, collecting roly-polies and sometimes tucking them carefully into my little Fisher-Price house like they belonged there.

At some point, my grandma would open the big white freezer in the garage, and we’d all gather around to choose our popsicle like it was the most important decision of the day.

We didn’t realize how free we were.

Sticky with sugar, sweaty from the heat, and completely filled with sunshine.

The adults would sit outside on the metal glider or in lawn chairs, talking and laughing, letting the weight of the week fall off their shoulders. There were no phones pulling our attention away, just a rotary dial phone on the kitchen wall that rarely rang. No social media. No distractions. Just being present.

And somehow, those moments quietly faded away.

When my grandparents passed, something shifted. It felt like they were the glue that held everything and everyone together. Recently, I lost my aunt too, one of the last keepers of that kind of love and connection. It’s made me reflect on just how much they, along with my mom, shaped who I am.

I’m so grateful I had that time with them. Truly.

But there’s also a quiet sadness in knowing my daughter will never experience that exact world.

Summers at my grandparents’ house felt like their own universe. Mornings meant watching “The Price Is Right” and afternoon soap operas drifting through the house. Outside, the bright pink azaleas bloomed boldly, and we’d keep watch over the cherry-red hummingbird feeders, waiting for those tiny visitors to appear.

There were meals I can still taste, stuffed cabbage, cucumber salad, homemade biscuits. We worked on puzzles together that my grandfather would later glue, frame, and hang proudly on the wall.

We jumped on pogo sticks with rubber balls at the base, chased a little chocolate chihuahua around the yard, and played pool in the garage. An old 8-track player filled the air with classic country music.

That was the soundtrack of my childhood.

Holidays were always spent together at my grandparents’ house or rotating between my parents’ and my aunt’s. There were big meals, laughter that filled every room, and those giant video cameras recording us as we tore open Christmas presents.

We played basketball in the driveway, rode 3-wheelers, and soaked up the sun surrounded by my aunt’s endless collection of potted plants. There was always sweet tea, newspapers spread across the table, and video games like Pitfall and Frogger on the Nintendo.

And there was something even better than all of that, real conversation. Real connection. Real life happening in real time.

Now, when I think back on those days, they make me smile… and ache at the same time.

Because those people, the ones who made it all feel so full are mostly gone.

Losing my aunt most recently has brought all of it rushing back. And now, sometimes, I just close my eyes and let those memories wash over me. I let the love run through me, because I know how incredibly blessed I was to live right in the middle of it.

It’s made me think a lot about love and loss and how deeply they’re connected.

Because the truth is, it hurts this much because we loved so much.

And in the end, that’s what really matters.

Not the things. Not the distractions. Just those moments.

So, if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s this:

Slow down. Soak it in. Be present.

Because it all goes by so quickly.

We can’t go back to those days, but we can carry them with us.

We can recreate pieces of that love, that connection, that simplicity and pass it down to the next generation.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s how those beautiful, fleeting moments live on.