I made myself sit down and write my book essays yesterday. It took a lot because my books are about grief and death, incredibly relevant but scary topics. I didn’t want to write my essays and it took me the entire day to do it. After some reflection on why this was so (usually I can read and write essays about books quick. In fact I generally enjoy it) I realized that it was because writing and digesting those 2 books meant I had to look deeper at my mother’s death and the way it has affected me so far.
I read what I could and let myself cry and it was very draining but I did accomplish what I wanted. It’s been a little more then a week now and it’s all starting to feel real now. The chaos of planning a memorial and getting relatives to and from the airport has died down and it’s just me, my little sister and my dad.
The littlest things remind me of her. I had to stop using her Netflix account because seeing her name and the movies she would have liked was painful. Her winter coats still hang in the closet and I can’t even make caesar salad because it was “our” favorite.