Saturday, November 28, 2009


Grief is an imbecile. It's a drunken stumbling moron. I can't seem to pin it down. There are brief flashes where I can't breathe, can't think too numb or overwhelmed to be sensible. Then I'm giddy with a survivors enthusiasm, smelling the air anew, feeling the warmth of a stray sunbeam. I Will miss her, oh how I will. My Nonnie, my grandma. She was tough and quiet. Funny and strong. She went out like a flickering candle weaker and weaker until at last her light was extinguished. A life fully led. A ride taken with hands in the air screaming all the way down. And yet I ache. I hurt. Is it the dilemma of the religiously lost? Is it the discomfort at being relieved for another brief excuse to see my HUGE extended family all in one place - even if they're crying and distraught? I'm trapped in the sludge of some stage of grief I can't identify. Grief, that flickering will-o wisp. Dancing where I can't quite get a hold of it. I'd like to have a good cry, to shake my impotent fists at the skies- but I haven't. And I don't know when/if I will. It's too soon too sharp, too fresh. I'm still gasping still aching from the blow. What's next? What's next?

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