hard one
My mother died in December, the day before Christmas.
I came here for the first time in ages just to say that.
I took a tour around LJ and remembered why I left, once it was mostly interesting strangers and communities of pretty things.
Looking at my user list for people still around, I remembered the warm circle of interesting that used to be gathered.
Then I read my own journal, mostly abandoned.
One of the "recent" entries was about the first shoe falling of having to deal with her hoarding.
We cleaned her house so she could move.
And then, fairly on schedule for my little time-fluxed mind, she died.
It's been two months since, almost.
And just about that between her going to the hospital and being gone.
I had a dream in the first few days.
In it, I was typing typing typing.
I had read in some reddit-soaked hour people opining on whether you could read in dreams.
I remembered that as I wakened and read my dream poem.
It was a mind on automatic, throwing words down. About the raw despair, about the shock.
About the shadow of her life on mine.
I kept a few lines in mind but it all seems to be gone now.
There have been so many cries since then.
I had really, foolishly thought that because I had hardened my heart against her that I would not be heartbroken and hurt upon her death.
I lost her so long before that.
Lost so many years and so much of her.
A kind acquaintance said something nice about the obituary.
She does sound great on paper. So smart and good, such a maverick.
The friend lost her sister last year, so she knew the shock of suddenly summed-up meaning.
I have the Olympics playing on my mother's TV that now lives in my house.
A girl in red just fell down.
She looks disappointed. They are saying as she skates off the ice: she is processing.
Okay, now I have written that down.
I have spoken up and written down.
Another small return.
Processing.
I came here for the first time in ages just to say that.
I took a tour around LJ and remembered why I left, once it was mostly interesting strangers and communities of pretty things.
Looking at my user list for people still around, I remembered the warm circle of interesting that used to be gathered.
Then I read my own journal, mostly abandoned.
One of the "recent" entries was about the first shoe falling of having to deal with her hoarding.
We cleaned her house so she could move.
And then, fairly on schedule for my little time-fluxed mind, she died.
It's been two months since, almost.
And just about that between her going to the hospital and being gone.
I had a dream in the first few days.
In it, I was typing typing typing.
I had read in some reddit-soaked hour people opining on whether you could read in dreams.
I remembered that as I wakened and read my dream poem.
It was a mind on automatic, throwing words down. About the raw despair, about the shock.
About the shadow of her life on mine.
I kept a few lines in mind but it all seems to be gone now.
There have been so many cries since then.
I had really, foolishly thought that because I had hardened my heart against her that I would not be heartbroken and hurt upon her death.
I lost her so long before that.
Lost so many years and so much of her.
A kind acquaintance said something nice about the obituary.
She does sound great on paper. So smart and good, such a maverick.
The friend lost her sister last year, so she knew the shock of suddenly summed-up meaning.
I have the Olympics playing on my mother's TV that now lives in my house.
A girl in red just fell down.
She looks disappointed. They are saying as she skates off the ice: she is processing.
Okay, now I have written that down.
I have spoken up and written down.
Another small return.
Processing.