Buried.

Tonight we buried Butterfly. The beta fish. The first family pet.

I distinctly remember when we walked into the pet store and Kaylee picked her out. A bold beta. Bright. Bold. Fiesty. Gorgeous. Just like Kaylee. It was our first family pet. HER first pet. All hers. So she was given the all important task of naming her. Of course it was a "her."

Kaylee, being blunt and straight forward and always my tell-it-like-it-is child named her "Different Colors." But, not to stray from her true nature as a little woman, she changed her mind. More than once. Different Colors became - waaaait for it....wait for it! RAINBOW. Then Butterfly.

I'll admit. We aren't the best pet owners. I am not shy about the fact that I've killed every single house plant we've ever owned. Even the ones you really aren't supposed to be able to kill. Isn't it enough that I keep my children alive? So...there were times when it was Kaylee who had to remind us to feed the fish.

Last night I get home from work and Kaylee tells me to look in the fish tank. I knew. I just knew. I looked at Dennis. He gave me the look. Then I really knew. Butterflyrainbowdifferentcolors was a goner. Dead. Sunk. Not floating, but sunk. Resting in what I hoped was a lovely fishy peace at the bottom of her pretty little flower backgrounded (Shut up. I can create words. This is my blog, dammit.) tank.

So Kaylee tells me, "I cried a lot earlier. But Daddy says we can bury her. And he says we can get another one." So, today we buried the fish.

I watched as Kaylee helped dig the hole for Butterfly. I asked her if she wanted to write Butterfly's name on a Popsicle stick so we could stick it in the ground where we buried her so Kaylee could go talk to her if she wanted to. Kaylee was all over that idea.

She wrote Butterfly's name on the stick. She helped dig the hole. She watched as Butterfly went in. She watched as we covered her up, and she helped us put a rock on top. Of course Jack lovingly added his own rock and mumbled his own sweet eulogy...something to the tune of, "Da fishy dead."

I told Kaylee that when people or things die, sometimes we say things about them that we loved or special memories we had of them. I asked her if she would like to do that. She told Butterfly she loved her and missed her, and then she asked for more Popsicle sticks. And she had more messages to leave for dear Butterfly. "Butterfly." "I'm sure you will have fun." "I miss you." "I love you." "My best friend."

I watched her do it. Without a tear in her eye. With her head held high. With a sense of purpose. With the need for closure. For ritual. For a final goodbye.

It mattered not that it was a silly fish who was destined to live in the room of a 5-year-old girl surrounded by sparkly shoes, an overflowing bookshelf, shimmery pink curtains, a polka dotted bedspread, an overflowing dirty clothes hamper, superhero costumes and a nightstand covered in stickers. It was her Butterfly.

And Butterfly's sweet little burial was a tender reminder to me that my sweet girl's heart, my own, and so many people I love, have been through more than our fair share of loss in the past month.

Gram died a year ago in June. On her birthday, I did a memorial walk in Flagstaff with Northland Hospice in her memory, and later that day, Dennis, Kaylee, Jack and I all got pink balloons (her favorite color), wrote messages to her, or in the case of the kids - drew pictures - and let them go in the "grassy bowl" by the College of Social and Behavioral Sciences on the NAU campus. That was healing for me. I want to believe in my heart that she got those balloons. That she read our words and saw our pictures, and that she looked down on us as we sent those up to her with all the love our hearts could hold.

Not long after that, our town lost 19 young firefighters in the Yarnell fire. We attended a community-wide vigil in their memory shortly after their deaths. We explained to Kaylee why we were going. We were delicate. We chose our words wisely. But we were truthful. Because kids need the truth. We told Kaylee that firefighters died, and that we were going to be with other people in our town to remember the firefighters. We told her that when we are sad, it helps to be around other people so we can help each other through it. We told her why people around us might be crying. I vividly remember Jack looking at her as we explained it to her and he said, "Da firefighters died, Sissy." Have mercy...

She was a part of that ritual.

And now tonight, she was a part of a ritual for her sweet little fishy.

And it was important. Because kids need to know. They need to know death is a part of life. It's not something we can hide from. It's a delicate discussion. It sucks. It really freaking sucks. No matter what. It's horrible to have to explain to your 5-year-old. To answer her questions. But, she needs delicate, well-thought-out honesty. She deserves it.

And she deserves to have the chance to grieve in her own little 5-year-old way, which is much different than mine, thank goodness.

I look at her and I wish my grief could be so simple. I wish I could be so naive and so untarnished and so fresh. So unaware of the hurt and the pain and suffering that exists in this world.

Sometimes it is too much for the human spirit to handle. That is what this past month has felt like.

I missed my Gram so damn much in June. I had this nagging feeling the anniversary of her death was coming up. And when the day finally came, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I. miss. her. so. much. I miss her voice. Her laugh. Her smell. Her squishy hugs. The way she called me Sera B. Her sweet cuddles. Her emails. The way she always signed them ILOVEYOU. I miss her every day. But that anniversary hit me to the core.

Shortly after that, a dear childhood friend lost her husband to cancer. She has 3 kids. It floored me. It was incomprehensible. How can one even deal with a loss like that? How can that happen? It's just not fair. I couldn't wrap my mind around it. Her loss. The loss her sweet babies would face.

Then we lost the Prescott 19 as they now call them. Again, my mind couldn't comprehend the magnitude of 19 of our guys lost at once. 19 families without dads, brothers, husbands, sons, uncles, fiances. They had kids, some of them had babies due to be born soon. It was too much tragedy to literally even comprehend.

We've had to bury too much lately. What we can't bury is the grief. Certain times, yes. We can't cry and lose it 24/7. We have to drive. We have to work. We have to read bedtime stories and yell at telemarketers. But we have to find time to let it OUT. We have to grieve. Whatever that means for us. In whatever time frame that means for us. There's no right way. There's no wrong way. But we have to allow ourselves to do it. We can't bury it.

And ironic as it is, when I say we can't bury it, sometimes it feels like we are the ones who are buried. Who are suffocating. Can't breathe. Who are panicked and can't get out. Who feel shrouded in darkness and can't see much light. But we have to remember there is air. There is light. We're not alone. We. are. NOT. alone. And there is no shame in admitting our struggles. Instead, there is strength in reaching out. In accepting help and in accepting the support of others. It takes courage to ask for help, and it takes courage to accept it.

But, we have to be brave. My Gram was brave. She fought like hell. And then she knew when enough was enough, and she was brave enough to let go. My friend's husband was brave as hell, too. He fought with everything he had. My friend - and my friend's babies - are brave. I will never, ever know the depth of their bravery. Those firefighters walked into the flames to save lives and lost their own. They were brave. My Kaylee was brave tonight.

We're all brave. Whether we think we are or not. To cry is brave. To admit we can't handle it all is brave. To allow ourselves to lose it is brave. To face our fears, our weaknesses, our faults, our insecurities - all of that is brave.

And that's why I'm writing again. Because for so long, I didn't think I was brave. I felt so small. So insignificant. So scared. Insecure.

But I made a choice.

I chose to be brave.

To me, there is simply no other choice.

In anything.

No matter WHAT.

And it is my job in life to make sure my children grow up knowing that simple, yet oh-so-powerful truth beyond a shadow of a doubt as well.