Change

I want to change. Anything. Everything. Something. 

I want a change so I have something tangible to remind me of the huge change that's just happened in my life. But it's not the olden days, so I can't wear black dresses for a year. And I'm not Jewish, so I can't pray the Kaddish every day. I like my hair the way it is, I don't really want any new piercings, and I'm still on a waiting list for my next tattoo. 

But everything has changed. Everything is different. Nothing is the same. 

And yet I find myself back in the same place, following the same routines. I'm back at work, I'm back in Oakland, I'm trying to get back to spending time with friends. But it feels too normal, too before, too easy to act as if she never died. (Even while, inside my head, I'm screaming "my mom just died!" to everyone I see. They need to know, they need to remember. It's too much of who I am for them not to notice.)

So I get rid of stuff (while adding my mom's books to my bookshelf). And I donate old clothes (while wearing her big grey sweater even when the weather's warm). And I look forward to the day when I can move to a different household and let go of all this furniture I've been holding on to. 

Everything has changed. The person who was with me my entire life is gone. And I'm left reeling in a world that's out of whack. 

So when you see me, it's okay to acknowledge that things have changed. Because things aren't "getting back to normal." And I'd rather not have to pretend that they are.