Last week there was a fissure in the shield, though. A huge crack. Everywhere I turned, there she was. It was almost as if she wanted to share in the beginnings of spring with me. To let me know she’s right there with me. To walk past that bird cage and hear her exclaim, “Mom, you’re going to fill that up with a Robin this year”.
The problem with those voices and the feelings of her presence, is that I have to face head on, over and over again, that she really isn't here. And the pain of how much I miss her. Her voice, her goofy smile, her laughter and her energy. I miss it. And I’m still angry about it.
There doesn’t need to be some upcoming event for me to feel that punch. No birthday, no death date anniversary, nothing. It comes out of nowhere.
I’m learning to embrace those days when they come. To try not to analyze it, and certainly not to try to explain it. Just breathe with it, and to be gentle with myself. It feels a bit like I’m honoring her, too.
I explained it to my mom like this. “Mom, I feel like a wounded animal who has crawled under the front porch to lick it’s wounds. I need to be alone, and to process this. You can't fix me ”.
I know I’ll have many days under the front porch, listening to the Jillian rain. And I’ll be the thunder in reply, rumbling in grief. And the lightening is the promise of the power that surrounds us all, reminding me that I’m not in control, He is.
I’m okay with that. I’m way okay.