This is a hard one to explain. Maybe described as the absence of the nattering, gnawing, condemning voice of worry, judgement, and striving in your head. Silence is golden. Silence is peace? How could I not be thankful for this?
I awake in a bit of a fog, only slightly aware of the telephone ringing. We got in late last night. Long past our bedtime. I can hear my father in the kitchen, his muffled conversation floating upstairs to my room. It's just before 8. We've slept in. I'll have to rush to get ready for school this morning. My father slowly climbs the stairs and I turn to see him enter my bedroom. He is tired and carries a strange expression on his face. He reaches my bedside and takes a seat. He isn't looking at me, but out my bedroom window to the hillside and winding road. When he faces me again tears have formed in his eyes. He covers my hand with his and tells me my mother is gone. His words get lost in a sudden release of grief. I turn my head into my pillow, tears flowing. I'm not completely certain of what he's said, I'm hoping I've misunderstood, but know...
My first birthday Normally I see this day coming and anticipate it. Today it caught me by surprise. I love this picture of her, although I can't remember her this way. When I remember her last she looked so very different. I have a picture that was taken a few months before she passed away, but I like this one better. Funny, this picture was taken roughly 10 years before she died. I think I need to come back and post this later, it's still early in the day and I need to make it through before I land in a heap thinking about her..... I'm so thankful for my Mom. For the memories I have of her. I think my favourite memory is from when I was 7, 8 or 9, I'm not really sure. Jamie and I had returned to New Glasgow for a weekend to visit friends we had left behind when we moved. I don't know that I was ever away from her. I do remember vividly Saturday night, I was so lonesome for her. There was a snow storm raging outside and I was sure I would never get back home. Thing...
The heart of an eleven year old girl still beats in an adult. Somewhere. She's alone. Lonely. She feeds her to keep her quiet when her crying gets too loud. Her heart is broken and she can't find her way to fix it again. She thinks if she could just keep everyone around her happy, the pain will dull somewhat. Truth is, she only loses more of herself when she edits her character and her opinion to keep life at an even keel for everyone else. She is tired of holding up her world, while time marches on and the wound gets deeper. Her heart is tender but she makes allowances for those whose ways are a little harder than hers. She keeps quiet because it matters more how she appears than what comes from her heart and mind. She loves even more to be helpful with a smart idea if the moment presents itself. She'll replay the conversation over and over when she is the hero and does the same whe...
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