So this year it's not August - we're nearly into November, and I'm writing a blog entry. So much changes from year to year despite the things that stay the same. Mom died back in July just days after sending a rather upbeat email update to the family about her chemo and immunotherapy treatments. She had decided to fight, to ask for a little more time - six months to a year. She made it a couple of months.
There's nothing poetic about death. My mind searches for her pulling in the drive in the grey, well-worn HHR. I'm struck by a pang of expecting when I walk into my folks' living room and see her purse and her things just slightly out of place from where she left them. Search as I might, death has not given me any great words or sentiments to put into print, to share with the world in order to help others in the same state of profound loss. It just is. It's just a gap - a void - a feeling that I wish she'd just come home already. I keep thinking of things that I'd been meaning to ask her.
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