I feel the earth move under my feet

One day about six weeks ago, I woke up feeling totally like myself. It was so good, that old familiar feeling of knowing who I am. I thought I was through the worst of it, never mind the mountains of literature that told me grief comes in waves throughout the first year and beyond. I was somehow better than that, faster.

So this second wave of grief took me by surprise, an intense aftershock just when I began to trust the earth beneath my feet. I’m back to crying in my car and spending the workday choking back the tears that hover at the top of my throat. I’m back to lying awake for long stretches at night, then going through the day in a fog. I’m back to losing things and forgetting to pay bills.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about mourning dresses. For most of history, widows in many cultures wore them for a year or more. We have gotten away from the tradition in the last hundred years or so, and I’m coming to think that might not have been such great progress.

This isn’t to say that I’m wishing for a black wool dress and crepe veil, just some small outward sign to show the world how raw my heart is. To remind people that it has only been seven months, which sometimes feels like the blink of an eye. To ask for just a little more patience and kindness when people have already been impossibly patient and kind.

But today is Friday, casual Friday. So I’ll put on my jeans, go to work and hope for the best.

Halfway back to Smartville

I left my cell phone at home yesterday for the second time in three weeks. I’m not a power user, so it doesn’t bother me too much to be without it for a day. What does bother me is the fact that I forgot it again. Add that to things like leaving the dog outside all night, forgetting entire conversations and developing a blank stare that shows up on my face far too often, and it all adds up to a disturbing pattern: I am not as smart as I used to be.