My second mom died. Her name was Sue. I introduced her to you once.
She died on Mother’s Day, with her son by her side. It was sudden and shocking and we are bereft.
I feel like a rat trapped in a maze. Life needs to be lived, so I get up in the mornings and I live it on that very specific plane of existence where laundry gets done and kids get picked up and dinner gets cooked. But then I’ll turn a corner and bam. I hit the wall of her absence. And it hurts.
Two days ago, it was when Annie got her haircut and I started to send the picture to Sue, who is her godmother.
Today, it was five seconds ago when I typed that sentence and used the word “is”.
I remember this from when my grandparents died in the car accident. Hitting the wall of grief. I know that as time passes, the walls get padded, and hurt less. And that one day, they won’t hurt when I hit them. They’ll send a cascade of love and gratitude over my heart, that I knew her and loved her and was loved by her.
But not yet.
The walk through grief is just like any other journey. No way out but through. And something else: the amount of pain in the hole she left in my heart is directly proportional to the amount of light she was in our lives, and will be again, once we get past this part.
In the meantime, we do the sacred work of sorrowing.
The Bustle in A House