I’ve had trouble writing this week. Tuesday, I finally came up with a topic, but simply couldn’t pull it together, no matter how much time I stared at the screen. Today, I realized why. This week, I need to write about missing Mary.
January 11th has been hanging over me all week—like something I needed to remember that kept slipping out of reach. Even Tuesday night at writing group, when Mary’s name came up, I didn’t consciously put it together. It was driving home, when I suddenly felt a wave of panic that I remembered. I thought about Mary driving home from her class January 11, 2011—knowing that she must have felt like crap—because when she got home, she had a stroke and died. Mary was only 46.