It’s been two months since my mom died. There hasn’t been a waking hour that’s gone by when I don’t think about her. Most of that time is made up of moments of uncertainty that she is in fact gone. Though the reality is in front of me all the time, it’s not quite in my reach. Perhaps I never want to grasp it, for doing so would mean to accept I will no longer be able to hold her, kiss her, laugh and cry with her, eat with the only other family member who was a foodie, and of course play pranks on her.
It’s obvious I haven’t accepted this yet. I feel this most when I am looking at a photo of her for example, and for a couple of seconds, feel suspended in the thought of getting to see her again soon. When the reality hits, it feels like a wrecking ball to the gut. I am reminded that the reality must be getting closer, for the pain, albeit in shorter bouts, feels more intense.
On the surface, I appear to be fine. I even have myself convinced of it. It’s not that I’m meaning to be insincere — It’s that life around me goes on and in it, nobody seems to want to bring the topic of Mom up. Is it because I’m expected to be in a different place than I was immediately after her passing — What is the time allowance for wanting other people’s condolences? Or is it that everyone thinks that by bringing Mom up, it will invoke heartache or feelings of sadness?
I wish people understood that my heart aches no matter what. I wish I could let go of the guilt or concern over bringing down the general mood when wanting to talk about it. I wish this could be the ultimate prank and Mom’s way of getting me back — I’d vow to never scare her again. She wishes. I wish.
