photo by Patricia

My Mom died 11 years ago, May 9th. Years passed as the grief lessened, never grieving anyone as she was grieved. It was springtime, only weeks away from today, and thoughts of her have cropped up more lately than years passed even at the anniversary date.

“Samuel, my thoughts go to Mom frequently lately. I think it has to do with the similarity of feelings then and now. The beauty of spring bursting forth, at the same time unbearable feelings of loss as she became sicker. It is much like now, the glorious grandeur of spring and the horror of death with no end in sight,” I said thoughtfully, wondering at the complexity of feelings inside myself with no apparent names to define them. 

He nods and walks away. Samuel is not a talker unless it’s about how a motor works, or should work. And living with Samuel goes along fairly well during this imposed togetherness. We are together most of time anyway, but he seems almost clingy sometimes causing my need for space and separateness to intensify. 

Just because a person doesn’t talk about their feelings doesn’t mean they don’t have any. He must feel scared too, leaning on me in his own quiet way. 



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