We’re enjoying a casual conversation when she says, “So, what’s the most significant purchase you’ve ever made?” It’s not a weird inquiry considering we can see the mall from our outdoor seats at the café. For most, this question wouldn’t have a heavy truth or sting of grief. For me, it does.
Suddenly, I’m deciding between giving the truthful answer or the comfortable one. The one that meets the answer she’s probably envisioning in her head– a lavish purse, designer shoes, or some tropical vacation.
Sadly, it’s none of those things.
In fact, I’ve had two significant purchases in my life– one right after the other.
The first was a casket for my mother. The second was her headstone.
Both equally heartbreaking. Both equally significant. Both purchases that changed me significantly.
And when I realize I can’t pause my response any longer, I say: “I’m not sure. There have been a few.” She looks at me, recognizing the hesitation in my speech and the heartbreak in my eyes. I can tell she understands. She either knows me better than I thought, or she knows grief deeper than I assumed, either way, she doesn’t push and somehow silently acknowledges the profound impact the question has stirred in my soul.
We change the conversation and go back to the typical chatter of occasions like this one. Eventually we’re smiling and laughing again, the weight of the grief faded by distraction. We finish our lunch and head our separate ways with a hug and a smile.
As I walk back to my car, the tears start to flow. I’m not surprised. I knew the grief would find me again. I knew the harsh reality of the answer to my friend’s question would eventually want to be acknowledged– to be felt.
I think of all of the other people in this world that have the same answer.
The biggest purchase.
The most profound purchase.
The harshest purchase.
The most delicate and vulnerable purchase.
The most meaningful purchase– the casket and headstone of someone they loved.
A purchase that changed more than their bank account. A purchase that changed their heart. One that you never forget making. One you don’t need a receipt for, because you have the details engrained on your mind and heart like a tattoo.
I spend my entire ride home thinking about my answer, wishing it could be different. Wishing that I could flip a switch, or turn back time, and my answer would be different because my reality would be different. Grief has a way of having you bargain for the unobtainable.
I stay in my car until the ache fades. I wait until the sting dissipates enough to carry forward, to carry on.
And I realize, some purchases are never truly paid in full—for they are bought with far more than money—they’re bought with pieces of our soul. Which is exactly why we’ll feel the cost of them forever.
