It’s been seventy-seven days since mom died. Eleven weeks seems like forever and at the same time it seems like yesterday. I still can’t believe that she’s dead. It still hurts more than I can explain. I miss her so much.
She was only 63 when she died, which is way, way too young. She could have easily lived another twenty years. She should have lived long enough to get to know her beautiful grandson, to read more books, to write more, to tell more jokes and laugh more. I’m old enough to know that life isn’t fair, but it’s hard — so hard — not to want to scream, “Why?”
Knowing is one thing, but it’s nearly impossible, for me, at least, to accept that life isn’t fair.
Today also would have been my maternal grandmother’s 92nd birthday. She died five years ago last May and it devastated mom in a way I could never have understood until now.