For three weeks (and a day) I have been struggling with grief. Grief that still feels like a throbbing, open wound. Grief that stalks me.
I try to push it down and bury it, but it finds me. It sneaks up on me at unexpected moments, like the middle of spin class or during a phone call or right after a shower.
It follows me to work and rides with me in the car. It swooshes about my head while I swim. It wakes me in the middle of the night like the poke of cold fingers on my back.
He is gone. Remember? Did you do enough? Did you say it all? Did you?
I don’t think I did.
And that is what haunts me.
I have become adept at choking back tears, but sometimes they race out of control, like last night. Last night, I wept uncontrollably, face pressed against my husband’s chest, hands like claws clutching his shirt, eyes shut so tight in the dark in that when I finally opened them I was surprised to see moonlight streaming through the cracks between the curtains, lighting the contents of my bedroom in gentle contrast to my shaking sobs.
I thought it would get easier, and in some ways it has.
But in most it has not.
The world goes on.
Work makes demands. Huge ones.
Children need tending. Lots.
There is housework. And cooking.
Errands. Luncheons. Volunteer work.
Commitments of all kinds.
It all spins around me. Engulfing me.
I show up. I participate. I push through it because I have to. Because it is what's expected.
But under it all, I am turned inside out. Partly numb.
And partly raw.
Labels: Heart on my sleeve