I made a promise to myself that I would try to write more. More meaningful things. Things that define who I am. But how to find the time? And where? I decided here is as good a place as any. This post is a memory. A vivid yet blurry image that will seem disjointed to those that don’t know me, but that’s OK, because what’s important is that I write what I’m thinking about right now.
The smell of that flower actually makes me physically ill. It reminds me of the time I had to say goodbye to everything I had known up until that point.
I remember standing there, seeing all this white. Nurse after nurse after nurse in their traditional uniforms. White dresses, white tights, white shoes and those hats that just make you feel like you are being taken care of. All coming to give their last respects to that imposter in the casket. I didn’t know why I had to stand there and endure one more person looking at me with those watery sad eyes like they knew something I didn’t. Couldn’t they see that that woman looked nothing like my mom? It just couldn’t possibly be. It just couldn’t. It was all a mistake. And why did they keep asking me if I wanted to touch her? Why would I want to touch someone I don’t even know? Who is DEAD? What do all of those weird faces mean? Is that what grief looks like?
Grief looked like the little girl who finally realized that that woman really WAS her mom and that she had to say goodbye. And the smell of that flower was stifling.