The house is so quiet this morning as I walk down the stairs, right into the studio space, and then back out. He is sitting there having his breakfast and it startles me.
He shaved his head yesterday because he was tires of dealing with hat head. His resemblance to his brother is so strong now that I think for a moment, I thought it was Noah sitting at the table.
There are moments that I forget he is gone. And I lose him again when I remember. I've said this before and I don't mean to be repetitive but grief sometimes feels like a rerun of moments.
I want to talk about him. And I want to talk about that day. I want to scream and shout. I want to throw things. I want someone to notice this pain. I want to know what others were doing when they found out. And what did they do to process it. I want to know that we aren't alone in our wailing.
Until I don't. And then I want to hold it all to my chest because it's mine. I don't want to share. I don't know what I want. I don't know how I am.
I forgot that I'm allergic to eggs and I ordered French toast this morning. Maybe I just forgot there are eggs in French toast.
I made tiny things with clay today. A pillow. Because it's OK to be tired. A star. Because the sight if the stars makes me dream. (thanks van gogh) a open heart to remind me to open my heart. A tree to remind me to stay rooted. The face of a kind old mountain main that sort of looks like a pirate because he showed up in my meditation and I really didn't want to go with him; I think I'm not happy that my guide is male.
Breathing has been easier today. I feel softer. Stretched and expanded. It's the open heart.
I've felt floaty since we've been home from Austin. Tonight I stood barefoot on the ground, imagining my roots digging into the center of the earth. Be here, be now.