Thursday, March 3, 2011

More Than a Memory

Isn't it funny how a memory can come to you at the most inopportune times?

Here I am about ready to go to bed, and I see something that triggered a memory of my mom.


Hardly ever have I really spoke about the passing of my mom.

It's not something that I really talk about to a lot of people because I feel like as soon as I do, a huge dome light goes on me, and suddenly people feel the need to sympathize for me.

I was 15 and in History class watching a movie when the intercom came on, and my name was called to the office.

My Aunt had come to pick me up and take me to my home. In a way, everything was so blurry.

It was like I wanted to still go on. I wanted nothing more than to try to live like nothing had changed.

But yet, everything in reality had been crushed. My world had fallen apart.

I remember my black and white wool jumper I wore to her funeral...with a black turtle neck, and black shoes.

I remember the look of the funeral old, and eery.

The rows of chairs with the burgundy cushions and the "reserved" signs for the family.

The smell of fresh flowers filled the room we sat in.

All I could think of was what was I going to do now.

Who would I talk to about boys, and my female questions I dad?

I placed our family picture in her coffin. It was our first trip to Disney World we had taken when I was 5.

My brother put in his class ring.

I now think about what this life would be like had she not passed away.

I think about how she would have loved my husband...and how proud she would of been of my sister and brother.

Why? Why do things like this have to happen? 

It's been over a decade, and I can't say it gets just comes and goes.

Cancer. What an ugly, ugly word.

I guess you can say I have wanted to post about this for some time.

I would start it, delete it...start over, save as a draft, and now I can finally say I bit the bullet, and I finally feel confident in hitting the publish button.

I love how just writing this, can make me feel so much better.

I guess they were right when they said writing is therapeutic.

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