grieving

Mother, wife, teacher, friend, mom is gone.

It has been several months and still I have no words to describe the gaping black hole in my life that has been created by her absence.

No words but there are questions. So many questions. Who will answer the questions I never got to ask her;
When you were my age, did you feel this lost?
This silenced?
At gatherings did the men talk over your head while a thousand unspoken comebacks raced through it?

The questions I have yet to even think of. Who is going to teach me how to mother my own babies?

What do I do mama now that my foundation has been ripped from beneath me? Where do I find the confidence to build a life?

Death is cold. Death is hard. Death is so final.

This morning, at 6:30 am, I was woken from a light sleep that I had just fallen back into at my boyfriend's house by a phone call from my mom.

He was gone.

When I walked into the house I'd spent a good half of my formative years in, my grandma was holding my grandpa's hand. That hand wouldn't squeeze hers back anymore; the only warmth in it was that which was transferred from hers.

That was surreal to me.

When the funeral home came for his body, we were given time to say goodbye. My grandma kissed his forehead and spoke to him; my aunt said her peace; my mom held back while I said my tear-filled goodbyes. My head above his, my forehead fell onto his. I jumped back, startled. Death is so cold.