I've been wondering how I appear to others.
I suspect that most think I'm good. I'm "over it." I've moved on.
I go to work. I volunteer. I laugh at my grandkids and have fun with my kids. It's getting warmer, days longer. I write Michael, I clean up and decorate your grave.
I talk about you, laugh at memories of your antics, tell medical staff what you taught me.
But that's a mask.
Deep inside, or maybe not so deep, I ache.
I cry.
I miss you So. MUCH!!
And then, after I'd been thinking about this, on Monday a colleague stopped in my office to tell me about a dream of hers, about being at the hospital and some things she saw, and she saw me and I was so broken, so grief stricken...
She saw me, me behind the mask.
The mask I wear to protect others, and maybe even myself.
I've gotten so good at compartmentalizing over the last 15 years, but you can't keep things in boxes forever.
And she saw me.
Oh, Aaron. Is that part of why you were so real, so happy, so accepting? I don't think you ever wore a mask. Oh baby...
I love you.
I miss you.
Love,
Mama
"It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief.
But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window,
or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed,
or a letter slips from a drawer...
and everything collapses."
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