Bad lox, for me, is an oxymoron. Lox is just so good.
In over a half a century of loving lox, I don’t remember it being bad. Until last week.
The half a pound Jonathan bought did not melt in my mouth. While the Fairway lox person sliced it, he shopped for the other things on our list instead of reminding her, as I invariably do, to slice it thin and trim the brown.
Last week, I suffered through some thick, chewy, brown-spotted lox and threw out the rest.
Yesterday at the Fairway counter, I heard another shopper tell the slicer about the lousy lox she had had the week before. Ah! The regular slicer said she’d been on vacation and suggested we tell the manager, Rick.
The other shopper didn’t want to complain. I did.
I found Rick. I shared our stories. Quietly. Rick asked if I had my ‘bad lox’ receipt. Of course, I did not. Rick couldn’t help without a receipt. A half a pound cost a lot. No problem, I understood, I told him. I would remain a regular shopper, because Fairway is my favorite store. Minutes later, Rick appeared with a $15 credit. “It doesn’t cover half a pound, but it’s something,” he said.
A lot. I’m grateful for the kindness of strangers. For kindness and understanding everywhere.
This brings me to Good Therapy. The hospice social worker, with whom we met before my mother-in-law died, listened. Well. “There’s no one way or right way to grieve,” she said. “You’ll do it differently, have different needs.” She offered the following advice:
Don’t try to do too much.
Keep in mind that grief is blindsiding and draining. Honor your feelings.
Plan just for the next hour.Don’t get ahead of yourself.
#3 - My father used to tell me that. In his way.
Stay in the moment. Stay in the moment with grieving. Through life.
The social worker continues to check in with the reminders, empathy, and more.
Every day, Jonathan and I meditate. We talk. We hear. We dance. We hug. We love.