I thought I did it. I didn’t fall apart during Christmas. I got through my mother’s Christmas Eve birthday. I dug deep for the type of joy she brought everywhere and tried to spread it at the various family Christmas gatherings. And I succeeded. We had a nice Christmas. We laughed. Almost magically. We bathed in the suspended relief of laughter. It's a few days later and tonight, after singing along to music, I cooked an excellent risotto. The type I would have sent her a photo of. And when I sat down and took the first bite, out of nowhere, I dissolved into the guttural despair I thought I had tricked myself into bypassing. First comes the panic. How can she be gone? Like, really? How? And why? Why her? And then comes the cruel flash of those last days and moments hitting me like bullets. Fast. But the type of bullets that don’t kill, they just leave gaping wounds. Remembering the way I hid in that bright, sunny hospital corridor and begged every angel to take her. To take her.
A Writing Experiment