It was only four times yesterday I thought to myself that I needed to call and check on Mom.
That’s down from five times last Monday.
It’s been a month. Holy shit.
I can’t bring myself to even open the big pouch from the funeral home. It has all the acknowledgement cards, the guest book, and all that shit I need to send thank yous to the people who came or sent flowers, or baked pound cake (which I may, or may not, have eaten every last morsel of).
For now, it sits on the floor of my room…my she-cave…the one room in my house filled with just me stuff. It’s judging me for being so damned intimidated by a friggin’ leather pouch, and probably fake leather at that, isn’t it?
This will get easier, right?