Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Mourning in Slow Motion

One month.

A big part of me wants to stop writing right there.

My heart hurts.

Since she died (ugh), some crazy things have happened. Words I wrote got shared more than I could have imagined possible.  I took some fantastic photos. I met incredible people. I read great books. I played in the snow with some very happy children who (more than slightly) resembled marshmallows.

And I can't tell her about any of it outside of a prayer.

Today, alone I have wanted to talk to my mom approximately 142 times, probably more.

When?

Oh. 

When my daughter refused to put on her pants this morning and ran around the house naked for a bit.

When my son told me that he had a great day because he got no timeouts.

When the dog possibly stole the cheese, and we found a clue, and I thought, "But you're telling me there's a chance." We had a bazillion inside jokes, and I clearly heard her voice and saw the gestures that go with that particular one.

When I wanted to say, "I love you."

All of it. All of the little things. Because that's who we were.

Each time, I got punched in the gut.

Gah.

I miss her with my whole body.

I miss her voice. I miss her laugh. God, how I miss her laugh.  I miss her hugs. I miss the way she held my hand. I miss her. 

I thought I missed her while she was busy dying. But I had no idea.

No.

Idea.

"We are going to Mimi and Boppy's house, but now it's just Boppy's house. Because Mimi died." I (insert expletive here) hate that my son has to say words like that.

When my son crawls into my bed at some point in the night (I refuse to look at the clock), I wrap my arms around him. I kiss his head. I hold him tight.

I pour all the love I felt from my mama into my own children.

They tell me it's the first year that's the hardest.

I can count the milestones already.

My daughter says, "Bottle," now, instead of "Bawwwwwl."  She loves to say, "No no no no no." She pushes her hair out of her eyes and rules the room.

My son will finish preschool this year. I started worrying a few months ago about if my mom would make it to the graduation.  Now, I know.  

Now, I know.

And we keep on moving. We keep on loving. We keep on getting punched in the gut. Because that's how it feels to be human.

I'm still a raw, open wound.  I can (mostly) hold it together in my "regular" life (because what else do you do? I have a life that needs living, kids that need loving, students that need teaching, air that needs breathing).

But when I sit down to write, well, gut punch.

One month.

And counting.










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