There's no place more quiet than a cemetery in the middle of the night. We parked back a few feet so the headlights would shine directly on her stone. We walked over, and stood in front of her monument, my eyes drawn, as always, to the careful etching of her name. My sister and her husband had brought out her little Christmas tree, Mom had added colorful ornaments, and it stood there in the moonlight, trying its best to be festive.
I always feel it in my stomach first. It's been nearly two and a half years on the calendar, but to my body clock, this tragedy may have happened two weeks ago, Thursday.
Tim breaks the silence. He's already crying. Lately, he's all he can do.
"No one should have to come here to see their child for Christmas. It's not fair. It's not right."
I stay until I can't bear it another minute, and turn my back to go. I hate leaving her there alone in the dark. In the cold.
In the car, Tim asks me why I like going at night. I tell him, "Nights were always the hardest for her. And she was scared of the dark."
Intellectually, I know she is not trapped down there, fighting for air and begging for light. This is hard to remember when the feeling of her shaky hand in mine, or her cheek pressed up against mine for a picture is so vivid. I can look to the side and see her cross a room or plop herself down on my bed, pajamas on and her hair still wet from the shower.
My mom often says that losing Cory is the worst thing that's ever happened to her in her 76 years. She tries so very hard, to put herself in my place, and feel what I feel, and I think she comes very close. It shows in her patience and acceptance of my grieving behaviors and timeline. The thing I've never asked her is if she feels like this thing- this experience- is driving her crazy. My brain is at such odds with itself. Acceptance comes and goes like some drunk friend who has no where to crash and always owes you money.
Cory is dead. Tim stopped me when I said that the other day in conversation. "I can't say that. What you just said."
"I couldn't either till about 6 months ago." I told him. I wouldn't even say "passed away" sometimes, I mostly referred to what happened as "the accident". "I also couldn't say 'funeral' for a really long time. And I corrected anyone who did- it was her 'service', didn't they know?"
Somewhere along the way, it seemed more honest to say she died, and to call it a funeral since no matter how beautiful and memorable I tried to make it, that's still just what it was. It wasn't a birthday party.
My brain knows she's gone. Permanently. Yes, and yet...my heart stirs up all these memories and makes them dance in the shadows. If you squint your eyes, just right, you can see her move. Live in my heart? Hell, I just saw her walk across the room.
Yeah, I'm losing my mind.
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