friends, summer, tell it

Summer. My favorite way to spend it -- an abundance of solitude and books, the comfort of a constant stream of Friends (all ten seasons), leisurely coffee breaks, doggie excursions, experimental recipes. I'm not a full-time hermit, though. Mini-travels, hanging out with friends (the real live ones, not the Central Perk ones), spending time with family, reconnecting with my husband in this big empty house while my father and brother are away, thank God for these people who pull me out of the sometimes too-quiet, too-serene world of solitude I encase myself in day in, day out.

I miss my mom, and as time marches on, her absence becomes more acute. For some, impact and shock and deal-with-it-ness are up-front; for me, the minute my mom entered hospice, it's like every part of me cooperated to create an internal anesthetic to ensure that I wouldn't implode from the unbelievableness of the whole deal. She was (and her values and voice remain) an enormous presence in my life. Sometimes I literally look up from the salad I'm making or the sink I'm scrubbing or the dog I'm walking and I think, "What happened here?" Six months ago, I knew what was happening. Now, I feel ... not quite as if the rug has been pulled out from under me -- more like, the tablecloth has been swiftly yanked out from under the settings. Each dish and place setting is still there, but everything's slightly off-center, the water in the glasses is sloshing back and forth, and although everything you need for the meal is there, the foundation is fundamentally changed. We come together, we sit, we eat. We are missing something.

Everyone in the world who knew her, knows of her passing. It's a weird thing to say but I almost wish there were someone left who didn't know, so I could tell them, and then there would be someone else who is as newly shocked as I seem to be about it all. The sadness isn't supposed to be this raw, there certainly shouldn't be such a feeling of surprise. And yet.

And yet ...