I thought I'd feel freedom. I thought I'd careen scattershot through my days carefree and reckless, wild to flex long-lost social muscles, excited to exercise laziness and lounge around all day.
Instead, I miss her. I miss them both. Moving Mom has reopened the wounds of losing Dad. I move through a one-house ghost town, slogging through the chore of catching up on all the things that fell by the wayside during move prep. I drag a heaviness around as I lurch through my day - when I enter each room specters flit before my eyes of times past - when Mom and Dad lived in Mom and Dad's house. As I sort bills at their dining room table the sounds of family dinners echo faintly. As I walk through their living room, past their recliner, sofa, chairs, Christmas mornings shimmer uncertainly in my periphery then vanish. As I take the garbage out, their patio flashes back briefly to explosions of colorful hanging baskets, an open bottle of wine, two welcoming smiles beaming from their favorite patio chairs before withering into shriveled, dead plants on hooks, with strewn leaves rotting in the corners.
I live in a house that was loved and cared for by two people who are no longer here to love and care for it.
Or me.
This daily sorrow starts slowly, seeping up from the soles of my feet, collecting, rising up to my knees, my thighs, my belly, surging past my breasts, my heart, clogging my throat, rushing in and around my skull and finally up over my head until I'm sinking, drowning, awash in a flood of mourning for what will never be again.
But such is life. Destruction begets creation. I'm probably shattering myself with sorrow now to pave the way for what I create next. I know by next week I'll be a tiny bit stronger, and the week after that stronger still. This week I am grateful that Mom is the keeper of all the strength. I'll allow my immersion into misery now, but next week it's time to find my own courage.
