Yesterday was the first day in 10 that I haven’t cried. Today is the first day in just as many that I actually put mascara on. Why put something on that will just drain down your face?!
It’s interesting to me how our brain processes. Every day is different. C.S. Lewis says in his book A Grief Observed, “Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.”
I see new landscapes each day, some more beautiful than the day before and some not so beautiful. Every night, my brain sorts and files the days information, trying to process this brick of grief. It puts all the day’s events and thoughts and emotions in a manila folder, slaps a label on it and files it away under the corresponding heading. I tend to wake up feeling better each morning, but as the morning turns to afternoon, the grief looms over me again.
I’ve heard it said death is like an amputation and I would agree. It seems to be after lunch I notice this gaping hole where a leg used to be.
Life just isn’t the same. Papa used to live next door to me and call me daily about silly things like how to work the microwave. My kids used to ask continuously to go to his house and play in the shop or fish at the lake. My dog would even run to his front porch if he happened to escape out the front door. I blocked off certain days from our schedule so we could spend time with him.
Now there’s just this void. I can’t believe he isn’t here for me to share this life with anymore.