The dog snoring, cozied up to the newly remodeled fireplace.
There are so many things to be grateful for, to celebrate, even after losing so much, so quickly. Up until now my mom’s death had sunk me into a deep and profound solitude from which very few people could rouse me. I had very little interest in faking it until the heartache subsided. Staying home, work, TV and my bed were good enough to address my needs.
Any other distractions didn’t do much for my state of mind.
Picking up my phone to write became counterproductive. No matter how hard I tried the digital clacking turned into mindless vitriol. Who cares if I liked or hated the latest Netflix series? Why would anyone spend time scrolling through paragraphs full of hollow platitudes and upbeat pleasantries for the sake of being entertained (or enlightened)? I kept doubting every post idea. Whatever I was feeling or learning didn’t seem good enough to share. My grief was still more important than any joyous act of rebellion. The happiness felt was temporary.
I kept switching between post apocalyptic like realism and informed optimism. Every safety protocol and emergency go bag was replenished. Being alive was okay, staying alive imperative. Breathing still gives me pleasure. The beauty in the solace soothes me. I am safe. I am worthy.
I am loved.
Perhaps the missing pieces of my soul are trying to tell me something from the great beyond. They push me to seek them in the simple things, the small yet thoughtful sacrifices that made this existence seem worthwhile. No matter how hard I tried to deny it, I had learned to live without them.
Moving on or away wasn’t a matter of if or when. It was inevitable.
I’ve made peace with this new normal, the one were my mother lives on in me and in everything I do. There may be no more birthday calls or family trips, or hugs, but I feel her. An intangible certainty. Omnipresent. Omniscient. Magnificent!
Whatever was, remains. Whatever would’ve been, a mystery…