Grief

They're gone. 

Gone. 

Has it been a week? Really? It doesn't feel real. I have kept myself extraordinarily busy this week. And for the most part I just feel numb. 

I've talked with a couple of people about grief. And had the chance to think about how I've processed in the past. I can't process "gone" just yet. That is a mountain I might lose myself under. 

But denial is hard to maintain. I find myself noticing the small differences. And I can hold on to each one for a moment. Like a pebble you cup in your hand. Feel it; let it go. I can process this mountain one pebble at a time. 

After months of battling endless laundry, all the dirty clothes fit at the bottom of one basket. The linen closet is full. There's so many towels. 

The car is very quiet. I've been used to two conversations going on at the same time. All the time. The kids were talkers. I can get away from the house, but then I'm sitting in the car. And it's too quiet. 

When I see an airplane, I no longer have to point it out. 

I got the cold, clammy sweats standing in the middle of Target's kids clothes when I realized that I was just there out of habit, not need. 

The hardest moment this week was when I was in the car, almost home. The street before mine runs parallel to the train tracks. I had just turned on when the bells started clanging and the railroad crossing arms came down. I slowed down and waited for the train to catch up. I drove beside it until I had to turn onto my street--the whistle blowing, the wheels screeching. Tyrez would have loved it.