Better Now

I left the house yesterday, and I immediately felt a little better.  Last night, Jake and I made a mad dash for supplies for the upcoming ice storm, and I was able to stop thinking about Cory long enough to enjoy the quiet sarcasm and quick wit he offers only to the people who make him feel safe.  Ever the thirteen-nearly-fourteen year old boy, he surreptitiously left his coat in the car and thrust his chin in the air just the slightest when I called him on it.  "Are you being defiant, Mr. Mansfield?"  I giggled.
"Maybe."  he grinned.

"Oh God, and so it begins."  I replied.

And so it has.  I cannot- CANNOT- miss his adolescence because of my grief.  I have to enjoy every moment because even if he lives, as Cory did not, he will be gone from under my wing all too soon.

Once inside Family Fare, he silently began to fill the cart with every type of donut he could locate...just to be safe, in case we get snowed in.  I would silently put the junk food back on the shelf, turn around to grab some veggies, and the chocolate covered donettes would be back in the cart, carefully hidden under the fruit tray.

He makes me smile.  Every day.

Pop has been outlawed.  I will allow it for occasional treats, such as eating out, but have refused to supply it in the home.  Jacob raised an eyebrow to this blustering of parental authority, and said, "Dad will supply me." with a tiny grin.

Oh dear.

So the thing to recognize here is that this year, I made it (albeit medicated) to the family Christmas dinner:  a new frontier.  And although the day after Christmas was hellish in nature, my body full of all the aches and pains of finally releasing the muscles that had held their tension since around November 1st in anticipation of the blasted holiday season, today is a lot better.  My recovery time from these "difficult times of the year" is improving, isn't it?

I do feel better. I feel it in my bones, the way Cory wrote in her journal during her first hospitalization:  "I'm better now.  I can feel it in my bones."  I was able to get this piece of her handwriting made into a necklace and it is the most treasured of all my memorial jewelry.  Words mean everything to me.  Handwriting is a person's mark on the world.  Her bravery is inspiring.

If she can muster some optimism with all she faced, surely I can make an effort.

I have to live without her.  She had to live with monsters I'll never fully understand.

She was a brave girl.  And one thing I know for sure is that she'd want to see me be brave, too.