Oh how I cried, though no actual tears were ever produced. My heart shattered into countless little pieces that would likely never again fit together in their original form. Engulfed in a hollow abyss, an empty void; a spectator to all that transpired around me. One is never prepared to receive bad news. It’s not on my agenda. My daily routine is to wake up, make breakfast, get the kids ready for school, chores, chores, and more chores. Tragedy isn’t relevant until it occurs and if you are fortunate it doesn’t take place frequently. So one is never truly prepared; therefore, your mind must do something to protect itself. It must ensure that you do eventually recover.
I put on a mask of bravery, a façade to make those around me believe I’m okay. To prevent too many people from posing those uncomfortable questions, or give them reason to spend too much time relaying their sympathies. It’s not that they aren’t appreciated, not that at all. It’s simply a coping mechanism. Much later, I will remember those who surrounded me with love and offered their support and condolences, and I will be grateful.
When I am sitting alone at the table having a midnight cup of cocoa because sleep eludes me. That is when my vulnerability reveals itself and I will grieve. When the pressure on my pipes finally burst and my tears can flow freely. My broken heart can slowly start the healing process. How many nights will it take to mend? I’ve discovered there’s no answer to that question. Years may go by and it could all resurface. And if that’s the case, I’ll always be sure to have my cocoa and tissues on hand.