I'm doing 12 things
Maybe in a year, I won’t need to share. This load of grief might be lightened by time, like compost, broken down and ready to enrich it’s earth, my mind, my soul . . .
But for now, I need to break it into bits and share it with strangers. If strangers share, then perhaps the weight of it all will feel inconsequential. After all they weren’t holding her hand when she died. So they might not remember the way I said goodbye and thought her eyes opened – death’s way of sneaking up and tricking you into thinking she’s woken up! She’s here to talk now! Then why isn’t she breathing???? Am I really screaming for my father or am I being still, holding my own breath while they listen for a heartbeat?
If people unknown to us were to remember the way her body turned from warm to cool while I couldn’t let go then maybe it would take from my chest the bluntest pain. Maybe the image of her fingernails turning blue would leave my mind. I didn’t need to watch, but I couldn’t look away.
If a stranger to her home shared in my memories, then the lightest heavy task of doing laundry, folding her clothes and putting them in her dresser wouldn’t feel so oddly normal. For where else would I put them?
If strangers ponder the moment the pastor announced to the congregation that she was the first of 12 – twelve – TWELVE – to leave us – then maybe my guilt for feeling so angry at that would simply leave me.
Perhaps if kind souls walking a path apart from mine were overwhelmed with the view of hundreds of mourners as we left to bury her, I could sleep.
If people I have never have met replayed the moment the sickest brown earth was uncovered before me so that my mother could be placed into the ground, maybe the gnawing, biting wind that accompanied this saddest moment wouldn’t return to sting my cheeks wet from snot and tears.
Maybe? I am hopeful.
