It happens all too often. I just have to hear of, or more likely read of, someone I know sitting with a dying parent and woosh, I’m right back there.
I’m back in the long, long days and nights. I’m back with the kindness and love of family, friends and total strangers. I’m back, despairing.
I feel the tension of late night drives, and having to make the phone calls that nobody wants to receive. I learned to ask for help. I learned the value of a clean t shirt, or a towel. I learned to sleep anywhere.
Warm words, hugs and endless chatting are invaluable. They help us through the horror.
Then we have to learn to get on, ourselves.
We have to learn how to be who we are in the new world.
We have to remember the hugs and laughs and the people who made us who we are.
Somedays, I’m uplifted by that. Somedays, I feel reminded of my place in the world and I’m warmed, enveloped in the remembered love of my parents.
Today I’m just a bit lost.
Resurrection by Vladimir Holan