A heavy stew of grief.
My mother died 29 days ago.
Survived by my father. Survived by his brutish narcissism, his meanness. Survived by his demons, by his lifetime of bad behavior. Survived by the dementia, strangely pedantic, that entangled all of us in unrelenting craziness in the last three years of my mother’s life.
All the old traumas inflicted anew.
Survived by me. Grieving. Angry. Unmoored.
Everything that is so full and fluent and sometimes even lyrical in my head unravels with the grip of a pen or the tap of a key. And yet the feeling of being moved to write–to render the world, to give shape on the page to all that is in my head–is nearly constant–and never moreso than now, with my mother’s death wobbling my world.
And so this blog: Perhaps it will be clean, well-lighted place I need. To seek, to find, a surer, clearer sense of my midlife motherless floundering self.