It’s not that I’m dwelling.
No, that’s not it.
It’s not that I want to dwell, but I am dwelling and something about this date has been weighing on me like a ton of bricks.
What is so different about 9 year, 364 days and 10 years. Why is that day so different and why does it feel like I’m trying to walk through waist deep sand?
Ten years, I guess, feels like a long time.
There was a time I was heartbroken, a little, knowing if by some miracle she came back to earth and back to life that she couldn’t find us. We weren’t where she left us. The advice, when you lose someone in public, is to stay in place instead of walking around to find them and while I say that I lost my Mom, I didn’t stay in one place for her to find me. It was a crazy idea that made no sense, but that I had to come to accept. Mom couldn’t find me if she magically came back right now. She couldn’t find Dad or my sister or my brother either. She’d have no idea where to look for us and it feels slightly insane to worry about that, because Mom won’t magically beam back to earth and look for me in the little white house in Illinois where I lived when she left, but I’ve discovered that grief isn’t rational and there you go.
The only thing that stays the same is that everything changes.
I think it is the idea that, in my mind, ten years is a long time ago. And now, even though the only thing that has changed is one year, in my mind it is the refrain of “my mother died a long time ago.”
My mother died a long time ago.
And that idea, that thought, just lays there like a heavy, wet, itchy blanket and I feel like there’s nothing else to say.