I watch her walk through my life, wearing my face and answering to my name.
I feel her going through the motions, changing diapers, washing my hair, buying the groceries, but I do not really feel.
Numb to the core. My legs feel like they are not my own.
My mind wanders in and out and leads me both home and astray. My life is like a movie, and I have a front row seat, but no date and I forgot the popcorn.
Something is missing.
But she can’t figure out what it is. I can’t put my finger on it, on anything.
The persistent proverbial fog has yet to lift.
So I watch her wander, through my childhood, adolescence, adulthood so far, childbirth, motherhood, joy, exaltation, loss and grief.
I watch her sink; fall farther away from herself, from me, until there is nothing left to watch.
The screen is blank.
The silence overwhelms me as I drown in recognition.
I have allowed my grief to consume me, define me. Slowly, painfully, the tears come and wash the fog away.
It was easier to be numb, to be flat, to be the audience. The hot salty tears etch canyons in my cheeks as they make their way to my chin and then fall to the ground.
Each one forcefully reminding me that I have too long been away from myself, too long denied them their release, afraid to confront the pain and uncertainty they represent.
Too long.
Grieving takes too long.
