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Grilled G’s had gotten her through just fine. In Gina’s experience, cheese made everything better—Parmesan on popcorn, crispy fried goat cheese in a salad, a swipe of cream cheese on a toasted bagel, or melted gouda on an egg sandwich. She even liked a dollop of sweetened mascarpone on a slice of warm cherry pie instead of ice cream. But grilled cheese, gooey from the griddle, crisp on the outside, melty on the inside, that was the pinnacle of dairy possibility.
What all of these people didn’t understand is she couldn’t fast-forward her grief. It wasn’t another item on her checklist she could accomplish then cross out. Grief demanded to be felt on its own time.
He treated her as a gift in his life, someone to treasure, not as an afterthought or employee.
1. What is one fact you know to be true? 2. Have I lived up to your expectations? 3. How did you meet my father? 4. How are we alike? Different? 5. What’s been your greatest joy? 6. Have you ever felt overwhelmed and wanted to give up? 7. What is your greatest heartbreak? 8. What is your biggest regret? 9. What is the best part of being my mom? 10. What do you need me to know?
She had always viewed her mother as someone to placate, keep happy, try to please. She never thought of her as someone she wanted to know. But for the first time, she did want to know her mother. It was time to ask some questions.
she explain when she literally had no words? Losing a beloved spouse was like losing an arm. Regina should understand that. You could carry on, but everything was simply harder than it used to be. Then, just when you thought you had adjusted to your new reality, you’d lose a leg. Lorraine would turn to tell Joe something the girls had done, and the bed would be empty. Moving on hadn’t meant forgetting Joe—it had meant carving out a special place in her heart so he could be a part of everything in secret.
A wail poured from her throat as she fought to remain whole, but lost. She wanted to curl into a ball to preserve what she could, but the truth pulled at her, demanding its payment. Her heart tore into two. People talked about a broken heart, a metaphor for sadness. But at that moment, Gina knew it was no metaphor. A ragged cut slowly pulled her apart, like a piece of paper being ripped in two. She would never be whole again. No amount of ointment or bandages would heal it.
Now her memories were distant and fuzzy from disuse, like silver left alone in a drawer for too many years. She wanted to polish each one and share it with her daughters.
“Just saying it’s okay to not always be happy. Life might be like a box of chocolates, but sometimes all the chocolates are filled with that crappy orange cream filling.”
No matter how messy things got, they had people who loved them, who watched out for them, who would help them clean those messes up. They would all be okay.
