My mom called herself an ostrich; she said she stuck her head in the sand at the first sign of trouble. In the months before she died, she expressed her fears about climate change and this election. I think she had an idea of how bad it was going to get, because she was intentional about her exit from this world.
She was done, so she allowed it when pneumonia took over.
I find myself grieving and mourning in fragments over different things; I feel overwhelmingly sad that she died alone, even though she was in her favorite place in her favorite chair. My niece made up her bed, because the unfinished business was disturbing. Before all this mom mourned the departure of her health, never quite right after COVD, her back causing her pain. When she came out to my car last December with a cane, my heart stopped. Mom was officially old, and the clock was ticking.
That’s the last time elder saw her, well, alive.
So I’m sitting here grieving a bit before getting down to business on my final projects for the semester. Part of me wonders what’s the point, and the other part of me tells me to get ready, there’s work to do.
Mom didn’t want to be here for it, but I am, and the only way is through.
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