Mourning sickness

The southern lights have just faded; mountains bursting forth out of thin air. It was always there, I reckon, but to fail the security check, it felt somewhat demystified, anticlimactic. My mother passed away a few weeks ago, and it has zapped me of what little humanity in me is left. Even though it was inevitable. Even though I had for months tried to push beyond what I am capable of. In that moment I saw my own mortality before my eyes, seeping into my consciousness, gnawing at my system, overlapping of thoughts I had of missing Ainhoa. It was unbearable. It is unbearable. I cannot fault life for gifting me this burden. It was inevitable. It is inevitable. Going through the holiday season with harsh penalties. She left me first, and she too left me, after all this time waiting.

Never the same, we ponder. Never thwarting. Always amicable to hardships, and what for? This viral cacophony of wanting to do something about myself now rings true and rings ever so louder. Mother should have been there.