It's another gray day, foggy, rainy, dreary. Typical October, in other words, the time of year when thoughts can't help turning wistful.
I'm in a relationship now, and it's serious, and that's good. It's gives me something to focus on, something bigger to be a part of, a place to be that isn't inside my own head. When Mom died in February, this is the time of year I most dreaded facing without her, the dying leaves and overcast skies, autumn turning to winter, and the whole holiday season.
Grateful as I am for having Tabbatha in my life, part of me wishes that I was going through this time of year alone, that I could wallow in my sadness and despair. Maybe I need to feel it as fully as possible to purge it. I feel that there are reservoirs of overwhelming sadness somewhere inside, and I want them to burst forth, to have an overwhelming crying jag, to somehow come to terms with everything I've lost.
Because I feel...I'm not in denial, exactly, but I don't feel my reaction--or more accurately, non-reaction--to Mom's loss is in any way equal to the calamity of the event. Shouldn't I be sad all the time? Nobody ever understood me the way she did, nobody was a better listener, nobody could give better advice. And she's gone. That's the end of the world, right?
My sister Ann thinks that, in a way, Mom's death was her final gift to me: Without her, I was finally forced to take the final steps into adulthood. In a way that's true for my brothers and sisters as well. Mom was the connective tissue that somehow kept us together, that kept this organism called a family functioning. Without her--what?
Without her, seasons change, accidents happen, relationships begin and end and begin again. There are jobs and friendships, music and laughter and sorrow, and at least one good thing for every bad thing. There's a whole life to be lived, and even a chilly fall and dreadful winter can't take away the promise of spring's renewal.
Mom herself said it best: Life will find a way.
