Grief

I am thinking about my cousin today. Her mom died this weekend after a long illness. When I talked to her Sunday she had that quiet, slow voice that comes from shock and grief. I remember how long it took for my voice to stop sounding like that. How long it took for even simple things to make sense.

After Jeff died I was brushing my teeth one morning, early enough in the process that we weren't back at home yet. I was looking at myself in the mirror and I suddenly had no idea what to do next. I had put toothpaste on the brush and put it in my mouth automatically, but I stood there with the brush in my mouth for a long time before my arms remembered the physical act of brushing.

I want to be there for her. To play games with the baby and pick her oldest up from preschool so that she can just take the time to be numb. I want to make lunch and then let her nap with the baby while the oldest and I read books and play with Play Dough. I want to make dinner for her and listen when she wants to talk and sit next to her and hold her hand when she doesn't.

The physical distance between us has been an ever present fact, but now it seems too big, too vast.

I would be there if I could.

Looking at this from the other side of that first year of grief I know that she has a long road ahead of her... and even if I could be physically with her through it I couldn't change how difficult it is to navigate that grief. She is a strong, kind, lovely woman with a supportive husband and the most amazing kids (next to Bean, of course). I know that she will make it through this just fine, but my heart is breaking for her and my thoughts are with her.