9:09 a.m. - 09/06/03
put a sign on my door.
just once I wish I could say "gone fishing." I hate fishing, so you understand the desperation here. but, no. the sign on my door, so stupidly closed, so unbearably unyielding reads "death in the family." and that's all I can say because if I can't say some of who instead of only what, I can't begin.
Laura said to me earlier this week, before it was final, that my post-Rogers life has been "truly a lifetime of stress packed into a short period of time." she said she's amazed at my resilience. I keep waking up; that's all I know. I check, now and then, and I'm still here. breathing. bawling. I told the doctor "stoic isn't strong" and he looked ready to print t-shirts and hand them out at his door.
I hate the rituals. the wake yesterday. the funeral today. they aren't working. they aren't right for me. I can't play catch-up and get-together with my extended family, when what I really need is to play with my heartbreak, tug at the scab of it, cry and sleep and cry.
chord
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