A glimmer is the opposite of a trigger. It’s a moment of the delightfully unexpected — a tiny slice of happiness, even joy.

In the year since the my mother-in-law’s death, grief has pulled at me in a thousand ways. It’s yanked at the fabric of my family. I realize that, at 38, I’m very fortunate to have only just experienced profound loss — but that pain is still acute, and made even sharper by walking the path beside my husband and children.

The past year was full of “firsts” — the ones you don’t want, and you can’t believe you’re living through. It was a lot of going through the motions. Fall’s arrival without Alex calling to tell me about the “indicator tree” outside their home, the first to change colors, knowing I appreciate the hues as much as she did. The first Christmas unwrapping the Grinch ornaments she handed down — the advent calendars, the quilts, the handwritten tags I’d somehow saved. The first set of birthdays. The first spring. First summer. Vacations. Milestones.

And now, we’re here — the second fall. Soon Hadley will outgrow the last dress Alex chose, on a mad shopping spree that last vacation. “Save this for back-to-school,” she’d said quietly, with an unspoken just in case. We hadn’t known then, had no diagnosis, but the pain was there. Always there. And maybe she had known, without wanting to.

I think of her daily, and find her everywhere. I’m not spiritual, but I can’t help but notice the praying mantis that settled on my shoulder … the yellow butterfly that followed me for blocks. I wave to the lingering cardinal. Whisper “hello” in the fading light.

Glimmers are there — pinpricks in the inky dark of grief. It just takes time, we all say, because it’s true. And with time, they have snuck up on me.

The first cool breath of fall. I’d had to park farther away, walk longer to my office. Leaves crunched underfoot — sounds of childhood, of warmth — and I’d taken my time, ignoring the neon call of the time clock. Suddenly a full parking lot was less frustrating.

An unexpected afternoon off with my sister. Catching up over pumpkin coffees, nowhere we needed to be (until, you know, 4:30).

Taking the doors off my husband’s Jeep. Changing out of pajamas, back into jeans, cruising for ice cream at sunset on a weeknight. Turning up the heat in our open breezy vehicle — cold + warmth, side by side.

Spencer and I will celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary this fall. We’re taking a big trip — the honeymoon I was too anxious to plan at the time, then too pregnant to ponder. We’re going to Paris, then London, and I think often about how excited Alex would be … discussing all the details, the plans, the “what-ifs.” Counting down. Sending us care packages. Splitting the time caring for our children with my parents.

Alex was an arranger, like me — and a traveler who had more to see.

When I squint, really look, that’s another glimmer: we have our memories. We could never forget her. And wherever she is, whatever she is, we carry her with us, too.