The burial ceremony was held over a blanket of fresh snow on a cold January afternoon. I hadn't grabbed my jacket as I left the church, I remember needing the pain of the chill to distract me from my overwhelming sorrow. Mom's closest family were gathered there, and I stood the farthest away. I elected not to add a handful of dirt upon her grave.

I've tried driving by since, but manage to have my mind elsewhere as I pass. I blame it on too many thoughts, sometimes a make-believe case of ADD, sometimes not feeling well. I think in at least some part that I cannot completely recognize as of yet, it's a contrived forgetfulness. I can still hear her telling me, "Why do you look for me there?"

Last night, as I was filling time until a friend got home from work, I went for a run. My feet just kind of took me there. It was a quick 2.5 miles, too quick for me to realize where I was headed. I gradually shortened my stride as I neared, working down to a jog, then a walk, as I crossed the life-rife lawn and sat with my knees held to my chest at her marker.

I let Norah Jones continue to sing in my ears. Her soulful voice enacts me to feel even when my bullying mind tells me that feelings are illogical, stupid, and counter-productive. The combination of "Painter Song" and my mother's absence was potent.



I sat there and sobbed. I miss her so.

I've met with many tears as of late. Brenda thinks it is because time has passed and I've begun to let my guard down. All at once I have become flustered with life, and completely lost in the nonexistence of the time I was once so eager to schedule away. Brenda suggested just this week that I sit at her grave and speak with my mother, that she was always there to listen. I didn't accomplish a lot of speaking last night, but it was a step.

I ran home with a chill in my bones, entering the empty house and feeling so entirely alone.