One of the hardest times in my life, that I can remember, is the death of my fabulous, brilliant, loving, larger-than-life mother, who died of a cerebral hemorrhage at only 67. You don't 'get through' something like that. You endure. You grieve. You realize there was a reason that for thousands of years, mourning had visible signs: veils, wearing black, etc. and society made a certain sacred space for you. This is because, for a certain period of time, you're sick, out of touch, and neither in this life or in the next. Do you have to keep going? Sure. Do you have to continue to be kind, and diligent, and responsible? Yeah. I had a 10-year-old daughter and a husband I loved, who were grieving as much as I was.
I hate the concept of 'getting through' it, as if suffering were something to be ashamed of. When we love, and we lose that love, we suffer. The only way out of suffering is not to love. Time truly is the great healer. At some point, my husband and daughter and I started going a day or two without thinking about her. And that's okay too. That's necessary and good. The scar remains but the open wound healed long ago. And if she hadn't instilled strength in me, if she hadn't made me feel loved and nurtured, and accepted and admired, she probably wouldn't have been mourned as much. So in that sense, I can be grateful for the pain. Thanks, Mammina. As an old poem says, I'll always 'carry you lightly under my skin.'
Anna
