My mother is on my mind. I want to write about something she’d like to eat.
Strangely—but isn’t this the way with grief, it’s all very strange—I find I’m the kind of sad I expected to be right after she died, not three months after the fact.
I suppose I was too busy to feel much of anything for a while. The business of death is incredible. I’ve barely had time to breathe.
I’m still busy, but it’s different. I’ve gotten used to it. Now I’m going through her things, because if taxes and lawyers and probate weren’t enough to drive you crazy, there’s the estate inventory.
I make lists of her possessions, to satisfy the terrifying Commissioner of Accounts. I hear she’s formidable.