Letting Go?

"Sometimes you find yourself letting go of things simply because they are too heavy."

That line was in my story about Cory and I trying to carry a gigantic out-dated TV down the steps to the basement alone. Cory made it about halfway before letting go and walking away, leaving me holding something much too heavy for the two of us to be hefting in the first place.  Do you remember that story?

I reread it off the blog a couple of days ago, and I thought about this:

There are things I wanted from Cory's biological father for her, and for me, that he could not or would not provide.  End of story.  I can let that all go now.  I have met that primal need to not just scribble something down in my private journal in the middle of the night or to draft a letter meant to be burnt into ash at sunrise as my pets watch on dubiously, but to publicly name the one who hurt and disappointed me and the child we made together.  My heart has been so sick with it, and now that all chances are gone for him to make things right with her, it is time to lay those hurts and disappointments to rest, as well.  They are too heavy to carry.  And they really never belonged to me in the first place, did they?  Why in the world did I ever reach down and pick them up?

 I don't have to talk to him to know he regrets much.  He does.  And I'm sure he always will.  I need room in my heart and my mind for the image of that cockamamie tv moving endeavor gone wrong.  I need to see her cackling on the living room floor beside me, "Sorry, Mom, it was every man for themselves!"

And last night, I read an old blog post with this line:  " I would share my pain with no one; it was all I had left of her."

That is just how it has felt for a very, very long time.  The thing is that I don't think it's accurate.  I think that perspective was skewed deeply by the trauma of the accident scene- the way I saw her was so horrifying, it filled the world.  It filled my world.  And what happens when you see something so significant, so emotionally charged?  Your brain replays it over and over again, and a certain weight is assigned to that singular experience. 

 It was, hands down,  the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.  I was with no one I knew.  There is no one who can truly understand just how awful it was to see her that way.  There is no one to talk it over with that doesn't wince and try to change the subject.

That was the last way I saw her, outside of the funeral home.  But it was not the most frequent way I saw her.  It was not the ONLY way I saw her.  It may have been the LAST interaction we had, outside of the funeral home, but it was an unfortunate end to a LIFETIME of wonderful, laughter-filled, loving experiences.  

My pain is NOT all I have left of her.  I have love and kindness, patience and humor.  And those are meant to be shared with as many people as I possibly can before I join her in the plot next to hers someday.