More books. This one was given to me a few years back by a friend. I loaned it to Mom for a while but it set on the shelf and ended up back on the nightstand. Clark read a passage from this during Mom's Eulogy.
During the days and weeks after Mom, my internal voice was very loud. "Why didn't she call? Why aren't they here? Why did he say that? How could you? How could they? How could she? Doesn't she know? Don't they know?" It was a running, incredibly draining dialogue in my head all during this time. The anger was so vivid, I thought I would burst into flames. [On a random note, I guess that explains the endless crying. It was to keep me too moist to combust.]
And in my anger, I decided that I would be the best person ever when this happened to someone else that I knew. I would know the right things to say, the right things to do, and whenever anyone mentioned my name, the memory of how much comfort and compassion I showed to them during their time would overshadow anything they had ever known before.
And then life intruded. I went to a funeral and could barely speak. I met friends in similar situations and my fear kept me away. I did not speak because I did not know how to give them comfort. My wish to give comfort was consumed by my awkwardness.
And in my awkwardness, my anger turned to understanding. How hard this is for everyone. When you see me, you see what you can lose. When I see you, I see what I have lost. And somehow, we imperfectly move on together to fill the spaces in my heart my anger once held.
1 comment:
When you see me, you see what you can lose. When I see you, I see what I have lost.
That says so much...so perfectly.
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