Ten Days

It has been ten days since my mother died. Ten days of tears. Ten days of thinking too much. Ten days of disbelief. Sometimes I feel as if someone has taken my heart out of my chest and replaced it with a ten-pound rock. Sometimes I feel as if I'm someone else, living in my house, doing my job, but not thinking my thoughts or feeling my emotions. Sometimes I feel like my everyday, normal self, then all of a sudden, it's as if I've just heard the news, and I am paralyzed with grief and incredulity.

I have been surprised by the tears. There are so many. I knew I was emotional, that I could cry easily, but I didn't know I could cry this much. A friend's comforting words or a hug bring them on, of course. So does the sudden remembrance. Then they fall as if from a spigot, cups-full at a time. And this is not a quiet cry, mind you; on the contrary, the grief pours out of me in loud sobs and cries that I hardly recognize as my own. My broken hearts, my grandmother's death, the betrayal of friends, even the passing of my beloved feline companion of seventeen years can't compare to this. At middle age, the loss of my mother feels like the loss of the biggest parts of my soul, body and spirit.

I just miss her so much.