Being dead

One tough thing when someone central to your life dies is how they’re woven into everything, everything you do, see, feel.
Reminders are everywhere.
Every day something brings her to you.
They were a thread through your life and continue to be. In Mama’s case the thread’s color was red.

This blog is a surrender to that.

Since what I do is write, I might as well write through this grief, this minefield of triggers and reminders and sightings of that red thread she is.

After nearly two years of Mama being dead, I’ve made a kind of truce with it. Her being dead is mostly ache now, less frequently pain. In the beginning it was plain pain – for days and nights and weeks on end.

Our recent winter break trip is a case in point. We took Lysle and Micah skiing for the first time.
I was taken skiing for two weeks every winter as a kid. So the snow, the skis, the slopes and the sunny cold are all imbued with Mama. She hovered over our two days at Gunstock in New Hampshire. I skied in her snow pants. I told Lysle she would have liked to ski with him. He already knew.

I think this feeling is commonly called bittersweet. Luckily, the bitter of it is fading. Slightly and slowly outweighed by sweet – like in the dark chocolate I like to eat.

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