Grief

I haven't talked to her in 22 days. I've never not talked to her for 22 days.

How many more days will there be? Will there be hundreds? Thousands? How many more days?  And what will the all of the rest of those days feel like? Like this? Will Saturday mornings always feel like this? Will it ever not feel like this? 

I'm no stranger to grief.  Grief is an inconceivably deep, thick thing.  There are layers to it that I don't even know yet. There are layers of feelings and emotions I haven't considered yet.  Those layers are what I'm most afraid of.

I'm trying to be very careful to feel my feelings and deal with them as they come.  That's what everyone who's grieved the death of their mother, or anyone they love, says.

"Take care of yourself," they say.  "Rely on those around you, and trust them to help you." Am I doing that?

It's been 22 days.  I know she's there.  I know she's okay.  I know she hears me.  But I miss her so deeply, so intently, that the pain stabs at me in a place I can't reach.  The pain is a lonesome sadness.  It's a tranquil, peaceful, quiet longing that I know will never go away.  22 days has come and gone without a dial, a sound, a ring, a whisper, a laugh, an "I love you."  22 days is done.  22 days is gone.  She is gone.

Grief has taken her place. She was cheerful and positive.  Grief is angry and ongoing.

I don't like grief.  And it won't leave.