Reliving

Whenever I stop, whenever I sit still, whenever I'm not distracted by work or friends or TV I relive. I relive the moment I saw my mom after she had died. I relive the last three days when she stopped opening her eyes. I relive holding her hand, kissing her forehead, giving her ground up meds mixed with water.

I don't just see a picture of her like this. I relive it. I can smell what the room smelled like. I can feel what her skin felt like. I can hear what her breathing sounded like. I close my eyes and I'm there. 

And it hurts so much I can barely breathe. It hurts so much I can't make a sound. It hurts so much that I'm shaking long after I distract myself again.

I don't try to remember, try to relive this moment. It just comes on its own. I can't conjure it, and I don't want too. It's so personal, so soul-wrenching that I don't want to be around friends when it happens, even while I long for someone to comfort me. 

This was happening at the end of April. And it's still happening now. Slowly, slowly, as I rest and process and go to therapy and give myself space, I hope this turns into one of many memories, instead of the only memory. Slowly, slowly I want to remember more of my mom.