My head is full of squashed flies. (Forgive me, I’ve been reading Rohld Dahl to the munchkins.) The days are kind of fuzzy. I think it is Monday, but I’m not sure. Can’t really tell you what has happened between Friday at 7:35 and now. There was a drive. There was a remarkably efficient call to a crematorium. There have been books and signatures and boys and snuggles and a Christmas tree.
But don’t ask what happened when.
One of the advantages to being up close and personal with everything is that there’s not much room left over to be sad. What was going on a week ago this time? That was brutal, and it was brutal for her. Why should I wish that back for her? I’m not even remotely sad that she isn’t going through that anymore.
Which isn’t to say that she didn’t demonstrate remarkable courage through the whole process. She did. And there was a kind of persistent beauty about some of it. But at the end, the instinct to keep on even after days of low oxygen levels would no doubt have damaged her brain irrevocably, the body’s will to keep breathing is an ugly thing.
I find myself taking pictures out of habit, because mom would have liked to put new pictures up in her office.
Someone else will want the pictures. I’m sure my sister has no objection to the abject cuteness being captured. But I review the files and see a photo where the one kid’s joy is palpable and I think “I should send that to mom,” and then I remember that she’s not just in another state anymore.
She’s gone for real.
I want to write in the eulogy that she’ll live for as long as I do because every time I see someone running water without using it, the instinct to jump down their throat is damn near uncontrollable. That is her in me.
My sisters didn’t think that was a good idea.