Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

kissed Emma good-bye (some people touch wood, I touch dog), and headed out.

I need to allow for the possibility I won’t always feel the way I do now, and it’s important to take note of small signs of progress, no matter how insignificant they may seem.

My grief is a windstorm. Sometimes I can stand straight up in it, and when I’m angry, I can lean into it and dare it to blow me over. But other times I need to hunker down, tuck around myself, and let it pummel my back. Lately, I’ve been in hunker-down mode.

I have a righteous sadness.

Mom would never get that lack of affection is abuse.

Just thinking, Doc, every time I say something bad about Mom, I have this urge to list all her good qualities right after—my version of knocking on wood. And the thing is, Mom isn’t all bad, but that’s the problem. It would be easier if I could just hate her, because it’s the rare times when she’s loving that make the other times so much harder.