It Isn't Real

This morning I laughed at something my husband said. And I immediately felt guilty. Over the past two days, I've often forgotten that she's gone; but then I remember and it's fresh again.

So many things remind me: every time I see or hear the words 'mom' and 'mother'; listening to Christmas music; making dinner. I remember baking cookies with her, rolling out the dough and cutting it into weird and wonderful shapes. I remember doing the dishes: she would wash and I would dry while we listened to music and sang along--usually off key. She was always so proud of my accomplishments; she loved to read my poetry and stories. She was my first and greatest fan.

I used to be a cryer. I would burst into tears at the slightest provocation. I can't tell you how many buckets I wept when my cat died. But right now I'm numb, and I cannot cry. I feel the tears prick my eyes, but they stop short of spilling over. My stomach is in knots and my hands are shaking, but I do not cry.

People ask me how I'm doing and I really don't know. People say they understand how I'm feeling and I want to laugh. And then I feel guilty again.

It isn't real. It can't be. I just talked to her last week. I just saw her last month.

RIP Patricia Reid-Spurrill, Beloved Mother (June 12, 1953 - November 27, 2012)