Posted on | February 28, 2012 | 6 Comments
I have very little to say today. My heart is still heavy, my eyes are still full of tears. I am still waiting.
Hurt, death, and fear seem to be my new best friends and they haunt me at every corner.
Last night, I dreamed I was my 95 year old grandmother. Someone had asked me to bake a wedding cake for them and I was trying desperately to get it finished because my husband, my Papa, was waiting for me outside. I knew in my head that when I let him in, I would be finished with my life, so I was trying to get far enough along in the cake that people wouldn’t think I forgot to bake it. My Papa has been dead for almost fifteen years.
At 2:30, I have to take my almost 14 year old dog to the vet to find out what’s wrong with his front leg. He’s not walking unless he has to, he won’t come inside without bribery, and he’s pooping on the floor. He is old and I am scared.
And, of course, I am still waiting for news from North Carolina. Waiting with my finger on the phone, my keys in my hand. Waiting for time to find me, for something to find me… waiting for my chance to fall apart… sans work, sans J’s questions… just waiting. Yesterday afternoon, I used my drive from work to J’s daycare; ten minutes of sobbing without interruption. I got to daycare and wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater, slapped on a happy face, and picked up my child. I need more time than that to grieve.
But rather than continue to bore you with all of my sadness, stop by and check out my post at Liberating Working Moms, which is less sad and more sappy. Promise.