Postcards of Grief

Mourning is a process.

Comments on breast cancer by proxy, written by a woman coping with the loss of her mother.

Monday, December 13, 2004

And to think my mother called me "sunshine"

My Morning
by Emilin

6:58 -- Brooke reminds me that we have to leave the house in half an hour.
7:02 -- I get out of bed.
7:15 -- I realize while showering that the Christmas tree is no longer leaning against the bathroom window. "How odd," I think to myself.
7:16 -- I realize I forgot to buy my secret santa present for work for today's lunch.
7:35 -- We stumble out of the house, and I start the car.
7:37 -- B gets in the car, sort of falling into the seat, and slams her shoulder into the top of my head, as I am leaning over in the seat to reach for the snow brush.
7:39 -- B gets back in the car after scraping it off and tells me that she picked up the Christmas tree and discovered that it had fallen into a plant stand, knocked the plant and plant stand over, and turned on the outside water faucet. We have no idea what kind of shape the basement is in, but we know that it's probably wet. We look up to see that the tree has again fallen over. We leave anyway.
7:55 -- I drop B off at work.
8:02 -- I pull into the Blah Blah Shopping Center to hit JoAnn's for the SS present and Target for some Q-tips because we have exactly two Q-tips left.
8:35 -- I leave the shopping Center.
8:45 -- I pull into the commuter lot right after the commuter bus. I decide to pack the SS present and sign the other cards.
9:00 -- I look up to see the next bus pulling away.
9:10 -- While standing in the bus shelter, I realize I left my hat in the pocket of my other coat. The sky is spitting icy crap at me.
9:30 -- I'm the first one in the office.


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