Now that we’re back in Indiana, August 22 through November 22 seems less than a bad dream.  Her sickness, her fading, her last day, her visitation, her funeral, her name on that crypt.  Was that real?  Was that her?  Will she really not be there the next time we visit?

My life here is so separated from that experience.  We picked up right were we left off.  I keep busy.  It’s hard not to be busy.

I have moments where my grief catches me off guard.  I can’t turn around without seeing something she gave us. Cups for the children, our VCR, my winter coat, various shirts in the children’s wardrobe, toys galore.  Last Christmas, she got one of those recordable books from Hallmark.  I hated that book when she got it for us.  I knew why she did it.  And I didn’t want to face her mortality.  Well I’m facing it now.

I’ll stand there and stare at whatever caught my eye.  I’ll cry.  It’ll hurt.  But a moment is all I’ll have before I’m called away to be someone else’s mommy again.

I can’t break down and sob.  I have too much to do.  I can’t let the kids see me that way.

So I keep busy.  Busy in my normalcy.  Busy in my routines.  They shelter me.

But ask me how I’m doing and my armor slips away.  Ask me how I’m doing.  I’ll smile through the first one.  But ask again and you’ll wear me down.  Do you want to see my pain?  Keep asking.  It’s there.  Well-guarded, but thriving.