The good die and the assholes live, a colleague said to me yesterday. So painfully true.
I think about my sister every day. She is in my thoughts, always. In my dreams, she is smiling and happy. I can't shake the image of her dead when I'm awake. It is all I see. I know in time that will change.
My whole world is shaken, unsteady and unfamiliar now. Teaching has been an incredible gift to me. It gives me respite from what feels like constant sadness.
In time, that will change, too.
Loss brings up loss brings up loss. My mother has been haunting my dreams again. She is never happy with me. I am tired of this image. Awake, I know she would have been proud of me. Well, mostly proud.
Thus the dreams.
More losses come up - the loss of my family of origin. It is gone. Other losses too painful to write about, of childhood, and a father's love and so much more. It is, I have been told, the way we wade through death of someone close.
I have countless papers to go through, and I must clean out her house by February 28th. It is an impossible task. When I go over, I wander around in circles, and am easily overwhelmed.
I don't want to. I have to.
I know there are services to do such things but it feels wrong to me. The problem? I'm simply not ready to let go. It has been pointed out that I refused to believe she was dying when she was dying.
The good die. She is gone. Every day makes it less difficult to believe.
But no less painful.