I felt removed from it all. So I watched. I watched their faces, how they cried, hugged, sat together. How they talked, the low hum of serious conversation, but also how it turned from my mother to asking about other things, other topics, the intensity of death too much to sustain for too long, how after a deep sigh, a look around the room, people said things like, “How’s Ginny? She’s married now? Isn’t that wonderful.” How someone else talked about their car being in the shop, a valve job that was going to cost a fortune. How life went on. I didn’t want that. I wanted it to stop, for the
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Outsider post mom's death
