I’ve had another loss, and I am so, so tired of funerals, of crying, and of pain. Of feeling like this. Of worrying. Of loss.
I lost a woman who was like a second mother to me. I grew up with her daughter, have known her for 25 years, and spent as much time at her house in high school as I did my own. My heart hurts for the loss of her, for the pain her husband and daughter are feeling, for what I’m feeling.
For the bright light extinguished from this earth.
But of course, because I am a selfish, selfish creature, this loss made me think of the loss of my own mother, just six months ago yesterday. Mom is gone, as my best friend’s mother is gone, and now the both of us are motherless children, crying into a void, screaming “Mommy!” to no response.
There are no words. There are no words. These are my feeble attempts at understanding, but in the end, there are no words. There is no understanding. This is loss, terrible and painful and real. This is hurt, the way I feel always.
It has not yet become familiar. It is still a raw wound. This most recent loss ripped off the scab and left me exposed and vulnerable once more.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 