Live Through Me

When you lose someone you love, you move around in daze for awhile. You know the people that you care about are around you, there for you, but everything else is like white noise.

Words from others float by: words of love, expressions of sympathy, and bits of advice. Sometimes I wondered if I even heard them and sometimes the words lodged permanently in my brain.

Like, “It will get easier.”

Or, “As you get older, it will hurt less.”

And while these words were said with the best intentions, or with the hope they would come true, they were hard to hear. And as time passes, I often wonder what’s wrong with me that it’s not getting easier; that it doesn’t actually hurt less, but maybe even hurts more so.

Well, there’s obviously nothing wrong with me.

Well, at least not in this respect, smart alec.

Things are different, though not easier. And I suppose that’s okay.

Because there is some other advice that stuck, too. The kind of good advice that still makes you cry a bit. Happy/sad tears, though.

“No matter where you go, she’ll be with you because she’s forever in your heart.”

And gosh darn if I don’t see my mom popping up all over the place. She was a flower kind of lady. Loved to plant them, loved to see them, loved to have them around.

So all the places I’ve been this trip, I’ve had reminders everywhere.

At the Flower sales in the Krakow square.

In the rose garden in Vienna.

And even just on a walk home from school.

Seeing these reminders puts a smile on face. And sometimes, there are a few tears with that smile; but it helps me remember I’m not alone. I’ve got friends and family all over the place that I can still hug and I see flowers blooming everywhere that carry her memory.

It’s certainly not the same, but it’s something.

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4 Responses to Live Through Me

  1. Cousin Anne says:

    : )

  2. eRIC says:

    Well that was a nice post. But you are making me cry…
    And I don’t know what <3 u means, but I think it might be obscene?
    (a great title by the way!)

Thoughts? Bueller . . . Bueller . . . ?

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