Thank god I have friends who do not give up on me.
Liz and Kati came out this afternoon with teas and beer and cookies and flowers and tissues to cover every eventuality and then sat on the back porch with me and let me blabber on about how weird things have been, how crazy, how very, very odd.
I feel somewhat ashamed that I let myself go on the way I did. I think there may be a statute of limitations on how long you get to play the my-mother-died card and I am pretty sure I've passed it. I know, I know, there is no such a thing as a statute of limitations but I think mine is getting a bit stale anyway.
I didn't get shit done today. I didn't feel quite as good as I thought I would. I did manage to write two thank-you notes for neighbors who had brought me food after Mother died. I took those and some beautiful eggs to those sweet people and returned a platter. I took another coma nap. And that was about it.
I'll just say this right now- the aftermath of death is funky. Just when you start feeling one way, your emotions get together, have a quick meeting and decide to take the elevator down to the basement and they don't bother to inform you, either. I think that right after a death occurs, things burn real clear and hot, not unlike the fire that Mr. Moon has going right this second to cook our supper on. But then things burn down, leaving you with the ash and residue and you still don't dare to really stick your hand in it because it still has the capability to burn you, buried coals still carrying enough heat to sear your skin right off the bone.
It's tricky. And unavoidable and not to be unexpected in that each death brings up every other death and when it's a parent's death it's a whole entire lifetime of stuff that comes along with it, memories and feelings and regrets and rationalizations and defenses and relief and every kind of a thing and all you can do is try to surf it, try to ride whatever wave comes along.
And if I haven't mixed enough metaphors for you, come back tomorrow because there will probably be more.
I think my azaleas might make it. I sure am hoping they do.
I'm glad to have some of Liz's azaleas from her yard in town where it is always a little warmer, where things bloom a little earlier than they do here out in the middle of nowhere in Lloyd, which, reminds me that Miss Martha, our postmistress, is retiring after 35 years and the postal service is going to cut the PO hours to four a day and I received that news when I went down to check the mail today with a bit of sorrow.
Abide. What else can you do?