Burial.

Today is the day my cousin is being buried in Iowa.  I was unable to make the visitation or the funeral, but I got in touch with my sister, who was at the visitation yesterday and is currently at the funeral.  My mind flashes back to the cold February day in 1994 when I walked into the church for my mother's service.  The pews were packed with people, which made me happy to know that so many people loved her.  I remember the choir I was involved in sing Amazing Grace, which was a favorite song of my mother's, and I remember being at rehearsal earlier in the week.  My then-boyfriend's mother was in charge of the choir, and she counseled the kids not to look at the family lest they begin crying too.  I locked eyes with one of my closest friends during that song, and neither of us cried.  She told me later that she had to keep her eyes on me because I was the only one not crying, and that gave her strength.  I took it as a compliment. 

It saddens me to not be there for my family.  I lost touch with that side of the family not long after my mother's death due to my father and I having a falling-out, and every time I talked to someone, they would tell him where I was, so I ceased all contact.  He died in 2006, so now I feel more comfortable reaching out to them again.  I feel stupid for letting one person get in the way of my having a relationship with the rest of the family, but I also at the time considered it self-preservation because my father was certifiable and he knew how to shoot a gun. 

I wish I could tell my aunt and uncle in person that the first year is the hardest.  Too many times you think, "I really need to talk to _____," and then it dawns on you that they're no longer around or else you would have.  Each time, it's a cold slap to the face.  I was lucky enough to have a car briefly, and it was a blue Chevy Cavalier convertible.  I remember a semi-warm day in May when I took the top off, and I looked up at the sky and thought, This is the first real spring day without my mother.  The Year of Firsts, I call it, and it's a bitch.  The first birthday you celebrate without your loved one.  First day of fall.  First of each holiday.  I want to tell them to expect these things because I consider them to be universal, even though I honestly only have my perception of grief, and losing a mother as a daughter is different than losing a young daughter as a parent. 

Lots of people have posted memorials at the funeral home's website, and there have been some really nice things said about my cousin - loved her family, great multi-tasker who cared for the family and the home without missing a beat, always smiling and a happy woman.  We don't tell people often enough while they're alive what we love about them.  So go do it.  Right now.

Again?

February's been a tough month.  My mother passed away 18 years ago this month, and I found out today that my cousin was killed in a house explosion in California on Friday.  She was 31, and she was married with 2 children, ages 2 and 4.  Her husband and children were ok, but the ceiling caved in on her and killed her.  I have no more details.  On one hand, I would like more details because maybe those are better than the details my brain has conjured up.  On the other, finding out more details may reinforce the thoughts that they were right.  I've spent most of the day crying for her and for her family.  I haven't seen her face to face since my mother's funeral, and the strongest memory I have of her is at the funeral.  The family and friends were all in the basement of the church after the service, and people had finally let my dad and me settle down.  Dad couldn't eat, but I was finally starting to get a small appetite back, so I sat down, and my cousin was somewhere very near me, and she looked at me and burst into tears.  I numbly ate something off my plate while she buried her head in her mom's arms.  At the time, it didn't mean much, but after years of reflection, it's come to mean a lot to me.  She was shaken and grieving along with me.  Now, I'm the one shaken and grieving for her.  It honestly scares the shit out of me.  I think most people don't expect to die.  Even though we know we will, and we have death all around us, we never think it'll happen until "somewhere in the future".  I have faith, but the thought of leaving my little guy before I'm ready is heart-wrenching.  Not seeing him grow up, exposing him to that pain of not having his mother around....you never want to leave that pain for your child, but usually the decision isn't ours.  Her death was tragic, and my heart aches for those little boys who will grow up without her and eventually hardly remember her.  All they know now is that Mommy's not coming home. A poor toddler wails and wails for his mom, but he has to be comforted by Daddy or Grandma or Grandpa.  It's never the same as the original safety net.