All the complaining across the years returns to haunt the impatient daughter.
Nine weeks, three days, just over two hours.
No graveside tears were shed, no cards sent to surrogates.
Tears confined by four walls and shame. Am supposed to be stronger than this. Should be able to “sit with sorrow” or ask for help.
Death of a parent is universal, just breathe. It gets better. Kind people acting with caring.
I Don’t Want to Feel This Way. Emotions careen wildly through hurt and loss. The whimpering woman huddled there, can’t be me. Not again. Heart heaving. Gasping, breathless. Shivering in sorrow. Visceral responses.
Scarred but resilient.
Wish I could craft lovely prose to honor my mother and the magnitude of loss, but no. Think my way out? Do the work? Resolve it all now?
Not an option. Neither formula nor framework repair the cleaving. Only Chronos will bring relief.