Rain

One more month, and it will mark six years since the loss of my mother. The passage of time has smoothed out the unbearable burden of that initial excruciating pain, but the ache is still there. And will always be there.

Although it lies mostly dormant now, quietly brooding in the dark corners of my subconsciousness, every so often it surfaces. Triggered by seemingly innocuous events and objects, my mind suddenly explodes in a rush of agonizing memories of my mother's suffering. My thoughts blur and my head swims in guilt at all that I failed to do better, all that I couldn't do better, and all that I should've done better. The remorse and guilt augmented in hindsight fails to find reconciliation from my subconscious, which refuses to offer respite from my illogically and wrongfully self-appointed fault.

Nobody said grieving would follow logic.

I never know what will open the memories.
  A feeble woman in a wheelchair.
  A journal article about cancer.
  A display case of wigs.
  A shirt folded a certain way.
  The way a door stays open.
  The pile of hair after a haircut.
  A stuffed animal I kept.
  A cup of fruit.
  A summer rainstorm.

Sometimes I'll just stop and pause for a minute, while my brain relives a memory triggered by something I don't even recognize.

And I'll stand there. Swimming in a flood of memories. Waiting for the moment to pass.

And with a sigh, I'll move on. And go on with what I was doing.
Because...

   Because, that's what you do.

I miss you, mom.
I miss you very much.