Word vomit

Grief (cont’d).

There is nothing more unsettling than watching my mother fall apart, realizing my own ineptness at comforting her. Every night, I hold her sobbing body in my dead aunt’s bed, while we take turns telling stories, desperately hanging onto the memories I already feel slipping away. I only pull up my aunt’s voice in my head during my darkest hours, fearing that it will begin to fade away if I listen to it too many times.

Her house is frozen in time; her purse still lays sprawled open in the hallway; all of her belongings patiently awaiting her return. They do not know that she lays dead in the morgue. Alone. Waiting for someone to tell her family how a healthy 50-year old dies spontaneously.

The nights are the hardest. I hide in the washroom where my mother’s grief cannot see me. Cannot hear me. I run the water to muffle the noise as I scream and wail into a towel. I let the hot water burn my skin until it is as angry and tender as I feel inside.


2 thoughts on “Grief (cont’d).”

  1. I have been thinking about you. I wish I had words of comfort that would make a difference. It is difficult to grieve with a parent when you are also grieving the loss of a shared loved one. I’m sure I’m not the only one who is sending virtual hugs to you. What you wrote describing the scene in her house is so vivid and stark, and draws us into your pain. I’m so sorry for your loss.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I’m sorry for your loss. I sometimes have strange thoughts when trying to think of something comforting to say, but I’ll say it anyway… at least you don’t have to arrange time off from work! Too soon? Too harsh? I read in your other post that you packed a white dress. Don’t some cultures were white at funerals? I think you should wear it. If anyone says anything you can say you loved her too much to wear black.

    Liked by 1 person

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