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Grief is a b—–

Like some twisting hydra monster out of Greek mythology, like a tornado, like a bear, like a bulldozer….

It rips, it tears, it hurts, it ravages, it laughs at your dispair.

Two months and a few odd weeks after my Mom’s death, it still has the power to shock, awe and torment me.

In university I took a class called ‘Death and Dying.’ We studied the Kübler-Ross theories and different theological and spiritual doctrines and dogmas. I got an A in the class and found it fascinating….  I want to call up my professor and tell him how unprepared I feel at the moment. I should have failed the class.

I want to laugh because it has always been me who is the strong one.

There are days when you feel almost normal, semi-sane. Then days when ‘woulda, coulda, shoulda’ plays a staccato beat on your heart. Days where you forget and then think ‘I should remember to call her and tell her…’

I look at pictures of a woman so vibrant and full of life – and the great surreality of it is larger than the biggest grandest canvas Dali could conceive.

My least favorite are the days where it’s too quiet and the grief is like a wave sweeping through my home and my defenses. I try to stay busy. I may not write often at the moment, but I cook, I clean, I walk, I grade, I write code, I block things out. My closets have never been this organized.

I know that time will heal. Like I said, there are moments that I feel slightly whole… And then the plane you are on takes off and my friend bubbles about the new adventure, I feel guilty that there is a plane and a seatbelt and drink service and plans.

Like I said, grief is a beast.

But few beasts in mythology or comic books remain undefeated or are immortal. The hero just has to find the right combination of weapons or the right spot. The right tool or enchanted sword or special magic beans. A talisman.

My talismans are my sister’s strength, my brother’ courage, my Dadz’ caring, my friends’ hugs and Mr. T’s fuzzy white face:  They are helping me to laugh, reminding me to cry, giving me space to be kind to myself, understanding the beast. And showing me daily that there is a tomorrow and that I have to move forward. My Mom would like the nomad in me to keep moving forward, to keep experiencing. To tackle this great grand adventure called ‘life.’

Mr. T gets worried when I cry and brings me a tennis ball or dirty socks. Luckily, he has a knack for delivering pairs.

Grief is a beast.

But I have a magic beans.

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