One year to the day, my phone rang. My father told me my mother was being checked into the sickhouse. She was in a lot of pain. Seventeen days later, my brother and I were gazing upon her cold shell. To this day, I wished I'd had two coins to put over those half-lidded eyes.
I have been trying to avoid thinking of the date, but memory and internal wiring have not allowed. The realization has hung like storm clouds upon the event horizon. It's been a year to a day since that final slide along the downward spiral, and my mother is no less dead.
Those feelings of impotence and hopelessness. Similar feelings I had with the bruja a little less than a month ago. It's all so fresh. Saying it's almost too much would border upon melodrama. Still, there are moments it does seem a bit overwhelming.
I sip my tea and go about the day. Life does go on. It's just some are no longer a part of it. A sad thing, to be certain, but it's a fact I remind myself of, one day at a time.