I slept so hard last night that I can't seem to wake up this morning. I am in a dazy haze.
Mr. Moon and Russell are hooking up the trailer to the truck so we can go in and finish up the cleaning-out of Mother's room at the assisted living. I believe we are going to stop at the Waffle House for our breakfast. I am pretty sure that all deaths which occur in the south require (perhaps by law, even) at least one meal taken in a Waffle House by someone in the family. We need to cross that one off our list.
The Waffle House is a place which will take you in any hour of the day or the night. It will welcome you with fluorescent lighting, servers who will call you honey or baby, and there will be the good smells of bacon and sausage and frying potatoes and onions. It doesn't matter if you are deep in grief or in drunkenness. As long as you are wearing shoes and shirt and are not belligerent and have cash, they will serve you.
No credit cards accepted.
I am going to go put on my black dress again. It is now my grieving-nunnightgown. Truthfully, I don't even remember the last time I washed it.
This is how it is today. There is more, but this is the bare-bones story of it, the bright-morning of the third day after my mother's death.