Sunday, August 30, 2015

Grieving a House

Sometimes I'm sick of grieving. I'm sick of crying. I'm sick of feeling the absence. I'm tired of remembering days when I was too tired to even open my eyes. Grieving my POTS feels like it will never end. Grieving my mom's passing has only just begun. I went to a wedding and couldn't make it through dinner. Biting my lip, bitter, embarrassed, I fled to the nearest ladies' room and cried. My mom will never be mother of the bride.


I intended to write a post about the silly but necessary world of online dating. A dear friend recommended I chronicle all my first dates of 2015 .... and perhaps include a summary in this year's Christmas card? :-) I set out a few minutes ago to cheer myself up. But perhaps some days are meant for grieving. For listening to cello solos and Beatles ballads and making sure you're replenishing the water that is racing down your face, so tidy, single file.

Today we said our last goodbyes to my grandparents' house. It has been sold. It has been cleaned up. It is cavernous and empty. It is ready for its new life as someone else's home. I struggle to find words to express the sadness and betrayal stirring in me. It's like losing my mom all over again. You're relieved that your grandparents won't have to worry about the upkeep of a big house anymore. You're proud of them for all the work they've done to make this enormous life change happen. But then you're in the driveway and you realize THIS IS IT. You will never, ever be in this driveway again. Pictures of your mom and aunts will never hang in this house again. No more Christmases. No more Fourths of July. The end has come to this childhood constant. As my sister and I waved and drove away, I erupted, bawling, thinking of all the memories my mom would be sharing if she were here. I'm realizing my grandparents, I predict, will never have an Illinois address again. On Tuesday they will drive back to Florida for the last time. They will stay in their home there. They will visit us, and we will visit them. But the hearth and home where we'd always gather, our headquarters, is no longer ours.

Just another lump of coal in the fire of my grieving heart.


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