"When my pen touches paper. The truth is, I don’t know my own grief until I write." This is so relatable for me. Thanks for sharing. You're not the only one.
Deepam, Mom died at 9 am on the morning I was getting ready to drive to New Orleans (1 hour 15 min away) for an overnight business meeting. I was at my house down the hill. I went to her, stayed with her and Dad while the people came. I didn't cry. I held her hand and guided Dad through practicalities. I made phone calls, holding her still warm hand. When the coroner came for her and had her loaded on the final gurney, the funeral home rep said "Tomorrow at 11 good?" I looked at Dad. We both shrugged. I said sure. As they started to push her for her last hurrah through their home, I said, "Wait. Can we make that Wednesday? Does it have to be tomorrow?" The rep said, "That's fine." I went to the business meeting, had lunch, dinner, and breakfast with colleagues. They asked, "but what about your mom?" The thing is... she would have wanted me there. I had done everything we could do. My son was invited to join for one of the meals. Mom would have wanted me there to hold my son over a New Orleans breakfast. I didn't cry. But I held him while he did.
I don’t know my own grief until I write...I wonder if this is true of us writers. We experience emotion so much more profoundly when we write it. Sometimes I cry every single time I read an emotional passage I so carefully constructed. Beautiful essay...
"When my pen touches paper. The truth is, I don’t know my own grief until I write." This is so relatable for me. Thanks for sharing. You're not the only one.
That helps! Thank you, Pennie
Deepam, Mom died at 9 am on the morning I was getting ready to drive to New Orleans (1 hour 15 min away) for an overnight business meeting. I was at my house down the hill. I went to her, stayed with her and Dad while the people came. I didn't cry. I held her hand and guided Dad through practicalities. I made phone calls, holding her still warm hand. When the coroner came for her and had her loaded on the final gurney, the funeral home rep said "Tomorrow at 11 good?" I looked at Dad. We both shrugged. I said sure. As they started to push her for her last hurrah through their home, I said, "Wait. Can we make that Wednesday? Does it have to be tomorrow?" The rep said, "That's fine." I went to the business meeting, had lunch, dinner, and breakfast with colleagues. They asked, "but what about your mom?" The thing is... she would have wanted me there. I had done everything we could do. My son was invited to join for one of the meals. Mom would have wanted me there to hold my son over a New Orleans breakfast. I didn't cry. But I held him while he did.
"I held him while he did." That got me.No shortage of love in this piece. Thank you for sharing.
So true, Deepam. Well said. Well cried.
I don’t know my own grief until I write...I wonder if this is true of us writers. We experience emotion so much more profoundly when we write it. Sometimes I cry every single time I read an emotional passage I so carefully constructed. Beautiful essay...
Thank you so much. One never knows for certain if their inner world is an anomaly!