This impossible

Some mornings you wake up to this particular impossible, in disbelief again.
I can’t call her?
We can’t talk?
I’ll never see her again?
It cannot be –
Then you just want to bury your head in sand. Or for lack of sand in your pillow, in sleep.

The first night I went to sleep after Mama died, I admonished myself not to sleep so deeply that I would forget. I feared that would make waking up as if she died all over again the next morning. So all of that restless first night I held on to having seen her die. I didn’t let the knowledge slip away.

Now it’s okay when I do sometimes. I’ve been hit by the disbelief enough times to know I’ll surface from the sand, my pillow, from sleep. But to have the disbelief means I have briefly dipped back into her undoubted presence – where I spent most my life.

It’s nice to revisit sometimes, even if it means losing her again when the visit is over. Good to see you!

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