The gray of grief

I dreamt of my mom last night.  We were sitting across from each other in a restaurant having lunch.  We talked about appointments.  I asked when her next appointment would be and if she wanted me to take her.

She smiled and with glistening eyes said, "Late Thursday, but you can't take me.  It's the last appointment and I'll go alone."

In the dream I wept.  The ugly cry came quickly.

I woke with a damp pillow, an aching heart, and a longing to sleep and be with her again.

The sleep evaded me.  The children began to wake and the demands of the day came with them, tumbling into my bed.

I see grace in the last days, weeks, and months of my mom's life.  But I also feel the gaping hole that has been left in her death. 

This grief is like a foggy morning.  Like a ship engulfed, I bellow fog horn moaning, waiting for a response, longing for the fog to lift.  I sit, surrounded.  It's hard to make out the light, to reach the solid ground, to find my way in the thickness of it, so I wait.  I'm feeling for warmth, looking for light that breaks through, longing for a clear view.  I know the fog is a vapor.  It will not last.  It cannot last.  But right here, right now, it's thick, and heavy, and cumbersome.