Metamorphosis.
I am becoming a new person in a new time in my life.
I live in a new town, a new house, but a familiar house - I drive in my car, and then I drive in her car.
I may be eating from her plates, but she never ate from these plates.
So I drive her car, but I no longer see her, hear her, or smell her in this house.
Her cats are still looking for her, but they no longer expect her to come back. When I walk my dog in the morning, through her neighborhood, I cry while plugged into my iTunes, tears pouring out of my eyes behind my Ray-Ban's - and when I run into a neighbor who doesn't know she is gone, I relive the sadness in telling about just how fast she was sucked into the atmosphere, just how fast she left this world, and melted into the very air we breath.
My husband is becoming the man saint. He helps with the assimilation of my special needs brother as my grief stricken personality is mute most days, or full of vim and vigor, or vinegar and acid tongued - mostly I find myself yelling at him to stop yelling at me, when he is barely speaking above a whisper.
I am morphing - my pain is excruciating and I am full of pills to dull this pain, to take away the DEPRESSION. Then there are the taxes, the meetings with the bankers, and the money managers, and the keepers of the gate. And the keepers of the pool keys, and the imaginary safe deposit keys, and the imaginary piles of money a top the imaginary mountains...and guess who has to do not only my dead mom's taxes, (preparing them) but I also have to prepare our businesses and our personal taxes and organize all the bull shit surounding the funerals, the memorials and the receptions and on top of old smokey, I am to buy baby gifts for long lost cousins who gave birth when mom was dying....and go to daughters of dead mothers luncheons clad with presents and glitter...and eat up chunks of time with spoons that tick and tock and tick and tock pressing against my bony frame as I gasp for air.
Someone knock me over with a feather.
It is all so full of dry dust from the bottom of a dark old box filled with nothing but old letters type written in duplicate on onion skin paper. The paper is stacked neatly in this box, and the words resemble far away years of pain and anguish that no longer hold a reason.
I live in a new town, a new house, but a familiar house - I drive in my car, and then I drive in her car.
I may be eating from her plates, but she never ate from these plates.
So I drive her car, but I no longer see her, hear her, or smell her in this house.
Her cats are still looking for her, but they no longer expect her to come back. When I walk my dog in the morning, through her neighborhood, I cry while plugged into my iTunes, tears pouring out of my eyes behind my Ray-Ban's - and when I run into a neighbor who doesn't know she is gone, I relive the sadness in telling about just how fast she was sucked into the atmosphere, just how fast she left this world, and melted into the very air we breath.
My husband is becoming the man saint. He helps with the assimilation of my special needs brother as my grief stricken personality is mute most days, or full of vim and vigor, or vinegar and acid tongued - mostly I find myself yelling at him to stop yelling at me, when he is barely speaking above a whisper.
I am morphing - my pain is excruciating and I am full of pills to dull this pain, to take away the DEPRESSION. Then there are the taxes, the meetings with the bankers, and the money managers, and the keepers of the gate. And the keepers of the pool keys, and the imaginary safe deposit keys, and the imaginary piles of money a top the imaginary mountains...and guess who has to do not only my dead mom's taxes, (preparing them) but I also have to prepare our businesses and our personal taxes and organize all the bull shit surounding the funerals, the memorials and the receptions and on top of old smokey, I am to buy baby gifts for long lost cousins who gave birth when mom was dying....and go to daughters of dead mothers luncheons clad with presents and glitter...and eat up chunks of time with spoons that tick and tock and tick and tock pressing against my bony frame as I gasp for air.
Someone knock me over with a feather.
It is all so full of dry dust from the bottom of a dark old box filled with nothing but old letters type written in duplicate on onion skin paper. The paper is stacked neatly in this box, and the words resemble far away years of pain and anguish that no longer hold a reason.
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