Today I randomly typed into Google:
"How long has it been since September 2nd, 2019?" And it gave it to me in years, months, days and seconds.
I don't know why, but the days struck me the most: 954. That's how long my mom has been missing from my life. Yet it doesn't seem like such a vast number. Wasn't it only yesterday we spoke? A month or two since our last coffee run?
Today was punctuated by random moments of pure grief in the form of pansies fluttering in the wind, the mud-of -spring smell and robins running about, stomping the grass for worms. Every awakening of spring should elicit feelings of everything that is to come, but I find myself pining instead for all that has gone. There existed a season for my mother, father and brother. They lived their lives for a time and were eventually returned to the earth. It is the way for all of us, but I don't feel comforted knowing that - despite it being 'normal' or the 'way of things.' Unless you have an abundance of extraordinary spirituality or you've been to the 'other side' via an NDE, death is pretty unpleasant. For the grieving anyway.
Grief is like fear. It takes you and holds you under the depths like a school yard bully and when it's grip finally loosens and you come up for air, you feel like you almost didn't make it.
Sleep eventually comes and its a welcome relief...