It's been a week. Monday, we...ummm, ate some dinner or something.
Tuesday, Clint worked, and my Aunt Karla, here from San Diego, declared that she and Mom had leftovers aplenty, and told me to "do my own thing." I vaguely remember cheering, and then ending up wondering just what in the hell "my own thing" is.
Wednesday and Thursday some things must have happened. I know I saw people. I think I might have cooked. Or did we order out?
Friday, Clint worked, and Diane, Aunt Karla, Mom and I met at the Esquire for pizzas. Delightful. Newsflash, however: Mom does NOT belong in a bar-ish environment, no matter how informal. Duly noted.
Saturday: Farmer's market and ethnic groceries, and I'm serving pork verde and green rice at home, and there's a campfire hoopla that lasts until 12:30 a.m. We hoot and holler and laugh until we cry...
...and at the end of the night, Tim suddenly says to me, "It's been 2 weeks, and it's not any easier."
And I can only agree. "I know."
We have bucked up, and heartache came crashing down at the end of the week.
When we will stop counting, I do not know.
I only know that I am doing fine.
until it occurs to me that my sister is gone...
and there is a fucking anvil that lands on my chest...
...and weighs me down, from my collar bone to my thighs...
...and I'm not sure, if I will ever breath again.