Keep breathing
A year ago tomorrow, "someday" became "today" when I lost my mother.
There's a song - I can't remember the name of it nor the artist, not even the exact lyric, but the gist is that you just have to keep on breathing.
I never understood that, until now.
It's not immediate, when you're dealing with the arrangements and all, when you don't really have time to stop or think or grieve or breathe. It's after; not the immediate after, but the weeks and months after when the world expects you to get back to normal and there is no longer a "normal" to get back to because your world has been irrevocably changed.
There's a hole that can never be filled.
And all you can do is work around it. And keep breathing.
I miss you, Mom.
There's a song - I can't remember the name of it nor the artist, not even the exact lyric, but the gist is that you just have to keep on breathing.
I never understood that, until now.
It's not immediate, when you're dealing with the arrangements and all, when you don't really have time to stop or think or grieve or breathe. It's after; not the immediate after, but the weeks and months after when the world expects you to get back to normal and there is no longer a "normal" to get back to because your world has been irrevocably changed.
There's a hole that can never be filled.
And all you can do is work around it. And keep breathing.
I miss you, Mom.