Seven Months and Sixteen Days

Seven months and sixteen days...that is how long it has been since my mother's death. I still want to pick up the phone and call her about the silliest things that I have heard on the news. I still think how much she would like to travel here or there when I hear about a place I know she would like. But mostly I just want to hug her.

When I think of my mom it is with a very real tactile sensation. At first she wasn't much of a hugger but I was. As a child and young person I would hang on her so I guess she eventually got used to it. As an adult she was very much of a huggy person and whenever I left her it was never without a hug. And when I hugged her I tried to memorize how she felt, as if I were trying to imprint her shape onto my own. And that is what I think of when I think of her; a physical remembrance of how she felt.

My therapist said that it takes a year before it doesn't hurt so much and with time the hurt is not so keen or so shocking. But the other night I heard our dog barking and my first thought was that it was mom's dog and then quickly the realization that my mother was gone. And the realization that the wound, though healing, is still terribly raw.