Life goes on…
Two months ago, the base of my world cracked. For my whole family, things changed drastically. Two months later, I still have to remind myself that my mother isn’t coming home. That she won’t be sitting in her usual spot at the table. That we won’t be doing any of the things that I routinely plan for us to do when she visits. And a lot of other things that say that nothing will be the same again. I can still hear her voice on the outgoing answering machine message, and I want her to pick up the phone so I can tell her about this horrible nightmare that I’ve been having where she died. But she doesn’t, and every day the unreality is there. I miss calling her to tell her about the bargains that I found at the supermarket. Or about the things that were happening at work. Or asking for her advice on managing my finances. Or telling her about a new restaurant, or recipe, or suggesting a TV show to watch. (I’d call to say “Columbo is on now; it’s the one where…”) I had told her