It's the physical manifestation of sorry that leaves me winded: the always present stomach ache, the feeling like I want to shred my skin, pull at it, take it all off. It's the heaviness of my voice, and how I can't get my eyes completely open.
Everything is dull so that when I laugh deeply I am surprised by its sound and depth and fullness. I am embarrassed by its bawdiness.
The ceiling of grief hovers closer, as do the sides of it, closing in. My mother left today, my in-laws leave Monday. I pick up Art's cremated remains on Tuesday. I am pretty sure that on Wednesday I will not be able to get out of bed.
Funny, even now I am "planning" for collapse.
"Grief can be had after the following conditions have been met:
- Weekly laundry is finished
- I have made an appointment with a grief counselor for me and the kids
- Arthurs remains have been picked up.
- Meetings have been had with the Social Security office AND I have filed the proper paperwork with ....
If, and only if, these conditions have been met can Kim Hamer lay in bed, overcome. The time allowed for bed laying is -----. It shall last no more than --------."
God, even here, in this space truly between living and mourning I need control. It is the only thing I can hang on to.