It has been twenty-one years since I set in the early morning hours at the hospital and listened to the surgeon explain to our family that the damage to my mom's liver was too severe to repair and that there was nothing more they could do. She died minutes later from the injuries she had sustained in a car accident the previous evening. The note I left for the faculty and staff at my school explained that I had lost my mom, my best friend and cheerleader. I was in a fragile state and asked to be handled with care.
Twenty-one years later I'm still fragile. I can't shake the grief. It usually starts around Valentine's Day and lasts until President's Day, the day of her funeral. Wil had a program earlier in the week. While we set in the bleachers waiting the music, it seemed that mom should be setting next to us preparing to enjoy the show. Cal would be sitting on her lap reading the book he had received at the book fair. She would have been so proud. Just for a moment I was consumed with selfishness.
"It's not fair!" She should be here with us."
I'm almost ashamed. I know where she is. I know she is enjoying us, the grandkids, and all the activities of our lives, just on a different plane.
There's just too much hurt in February. While I want it to go away, I'm afraid that if stop grieving I might start forgetting my mother, my best friend and cheerleader.
Twenty-one years later I'm still fragile and need to be handled with care.
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