I’m getting tired of saying, “I.”
“I don’t remember…”
“I don’t know…”
You might be, too. I need to drop those I’s. Literally.
Don’t know which day it was: Monday, Tuesday?
Know my brother picked me up and took me to the funeral home. Don’t remember the drive.
Do remember arriving, entering and standing in the foyer of Handler’s. Think it might have been raining, or maybe the umbrellas and jackets are snippets from another family funeral.
Think the meeting room was downstairs. If not, it was still in what I thought was an unusual location. Not that I had any experience in usual funerals.
Remember being surprised and touched by the number of people around the table. Sorry, don’t recall everyone there, but I know the family group included one brother, one sister, Jeff’s father, at least one Uncle, my brother and me.
Fuzzy on whether or not there was an Aunt, non-step-brother or exactly how many cousins there were or if I am erroneously conjuring the other end of the table; same side, not in my direct line of vision.
Contemplated this on my walk home this afternoon. How wonderful it was to have the support of so many people to help me through, and how very touched I was.
A stride-stopping, startling thought smacked me – a whip-branch snapped back from those who should have been traveling the grief trail ahead of me. Slapped my mind – after 12+ years – my tunnel-visioned grief-blur ended today, on this revelation.
All of those people weren’t there for just me.
A bit shameful really. Unfathomable, as well. Can’t apologize for my thoughts because I’m not even sure what my thoughts were or if I even had any.
Benumbed, appropriately or not, the blinding spotlight on my grief was, singularly, “I.”
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