No one tells you what it’s like to lose your mother at 24 when you’re across the country and are sure she isn’t dying.  No one tells you how to act.  No one tells you what you’re supposed to say.  And maybe they don’t know.

How long until you’re supposed to be okay again?  Because life goes on.  My life goes on.  I have to go to work.  I have to see people.  I have to write.  And really, I am okay.  As okay as I can be.  But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  I’m not a talker, I’m a writer; yet no one seems to understand that.

Stop asking me how I am, because I won’t have an answer.  I don’t know.  I won’t know.  Any answer will seem like a lie.

All I can say is: don’t take life for granted.  Because now, if I ever fall in love and get married, my mother won’t be there to argue with me over details.  She won’t be there to tell me how great he is, or how I could do better.
I’ll never be able to bring a guy home to her.  And she’ll never get to visit my home here, in the south.
She’ll never get to read my first piece of published work, that I just got delivered to me.  She won’t get to point out all the typos, because there’s a lot, but it’s not my book, so that’s okay.  She won’t get to read anything else I publish either.  My mother will never know me as a professional.

And there a lot of things I could say.  There a lot more things that I meant to say.  A lot more things I meant to write.  Because I’ve been meaning to post this for at least a week now.  And it’s not for lack of strength.  It’s not for any reason other than all of the thoughts that I feel might be caving in on me.  There are too many.  I don’t know what to say.  I don’t know what should be said.