It's just starting to hit me now that my mother is gone. I'm starting to go to pieces every few hours. I'm sure it'll take a while to really sink in, so bear with me. The nightmares over the last five days have just been the icing on the Cake of Bereavement, let me tell you, flist.
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Argh. )
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Babar!
Your mother sounds like a hell of a woman, and it's clear she's responsible for making you the woman you are today.
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Although when examined under the illumination of post-colonial theory, I'm sure she was horrified by some of the more, ah, problematic themes of the Babar books. But what the hell - we were both in it for the elephants!
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Right now, it's "Can I get through the next five minutes" rather than "Can I get through the day," but perhaps that'll change.
My poor aunt. She's devastated. Her nursing home friends are devastated. My brother's the only one who seems to be fine.
Thank god my cousin came to Arizona as soon as he heard what happened - he distracted me with his bracingly caustic humor, ferociously biting wit, and by getting pissed off at the same things that were pissing me off while we were there. (We also spent an inordinate amount of time talking tattoos, film, and history, so that made things slightly more bearable, otherwise I'd have drowned myself in my hotel bathtub.)
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I got swept up in re-reading old Clark-Kendra threads the other day. Those always cheer me up.
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But in the good way.
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Never know what else to say.
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But over the last week, my aunt and I have both been reading certain poets and finding solace in their work. It's been surprising.
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X.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.
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