Nature abhors a vacuum, I've read, but the vacuum I feel right now, I cannot fathom it ever being filled. My mom has been gone now for over a month now. It still feels like a bitter draft at my window. But the draft is drawing me out, not pushing me back in the room. I try to fill the void.
Pictures don't fill it.
Stories doesn't fill it.
Dreams try to, but when they are nightmares, I can do without.
Yes, I've come to terms with death, but not with absence.
The vacuum doesn't get put away, but maybe it slows down. Sometimes it stops entirely, then something, a scrap of a song, an image from a movie, a glimpse of a grey-haired elderly woman, with a jeweled brooch afixed to her coat, starts the vacuum running again.
Maybe that's the new "normal".