Dear Erin,
Every day is hard. Some are harder than others. I can't predict which ones will be the hardest, so I just have to feel the grief as it hits me. I expected your birthday to be difficult, but the day before was actually worse. I woke up in the morning thinking "Erin's birthday is tomorrow". It was pretty much downhill from there. Your actual birthday was easier. So, you see, it's impossible to prepare for those moments and hours when I am going to fall into the black hole and have to climb back out once again.
Today I was walking through Meijer Thrifty Acres. I know you love when I call it that. I was about half way through with my grocery shopping when suddenly something, I don't know what, made me feel you so powerfully that I stopped in the middle of the aisle. I couldn't remember what I was looking for. All I could think about was you and all of the times we wandered around that store together. This same thing happens to me several times a week in random places. The weight of my grief takes over and I am paralyzed by it until I can find my way back to the reality of the task at hand. I just wanted to abandon my cart and find a place to sit and cry, but it's kind of like when I am driving down the road and someone sends me a text. I pull over to the side of the road and answer the text if necessary. Then I merge back into traffic and continue on my way. So after wandering aimlessly for a couple of minutes I pushed my cart to the side and pretended to study my grocery list as I let the feelings wash over me. I read once about a woman who stood sobbing in the aisle at the grocery store, looking at a display of her deceased son's favorite soda pop. I can totally relate to that.
It's been four and a half months since you died. People try and tell you that it gets easier, but I don't believe it. I think you just learn to live with sorrow as your constant companion.
Love, Mom
A hundred times a day I want to talk to her. So I write letters and listen carefully for her reply.
