They say there are seven stages of grief. I’m in the one where you dig a little hole in your house, and hope never to have to come out. I haven’t returned an email in two weeks (sorry). I haven’t graded a paper in nearly three (eek). And people keep saying it’s fine, you do what you need to do, and me, I don’t feel fine. I feel less able to mother, more able to anger, and entirely lost in a sea of condolences. I would trade every card, and bouquet of flowers, every nice thought, gift sent, and compliment paid on a eulogy well done, to not be in this place.
Spring is here, and I don’t want to enjoy it. I want to drink three beers, go to bed early, and face the next day in a little bit of a daze.
I normally end these diatribes of cantankerous ire with a little hope, and a little joy, or a little brightness to be found. But tonight, even a trip into town and ice cream doesn’t turn up the edges of my frown.
It’s just, that last week I had to have my big girl pants on – I had to do the things that needed to be done — and now this week, this week, I would like to eschew pants and responsibility altogether. Find me that hole, line it with blankets, pipe in some tunes, and stock it with beer, that’s where you’ll find me. At least for a little while.