A Bit of Real Life, A Little Sad, Brooklyn, death, health

Uncertain Forecast

It’s been difficult for me to verbalize exactly what my body is reacting to, and why I feel so guilty taking care of myself. Not working? Napping? Reading? It sounds guiltily decadent. I’m not used to being both vulnerable and uncomplicated, and it’s left me out of sorts.


I found some words last night. I now recognize this as a deep, physical trauma. One I can’t ever recover from, but with rest and perspective and support, I can learn to live through.

Mommy. I won’t hear her old-school ringtone again. Or her repeated, Brooklyn-tinged requests for bottled “whaw-duh.” Or her trash judge shows playing in the background. No more peeking in her room to see damn, why is this woman’s snoring SO. LOUD? No more reminiscing of Greta’s cakes, or long-gone Roanoke kin. No more recounting of hair wrapped in juice cans, or her first job as a domestic, where a white lady would step out her underwear and stockings and leave them where she stood. No more talk of the importance of unions, of civil servants’ rights, or the rights of immigrants and older students to get a good, free education at New York City Community College.

I think I’ll move this from Facebook to the blog, and if any of it resonates, you tell at least one person, and that way Mommy is still here, in our consciousness. If I know she’s remembered, it’ll sow the seeds for my own peace.

I’m trying to appreciate this unusual downtime; as much as this double-edged city will let me. Struggling to be less of a Virgo, and get comfortable with out-the-box ideas. I’m trying to let more go (pray for a sister!). Struggling to rein in a runaway brain flooded with new, life-changing information. I think of our mother-daughter bond and feel as if my very DNA is floating about like liquid in a lava lamp, regrouping, knitting me back up. Recalibrating, a soror called it.

Five years, a friend from City Tech said to me yesterday, her voice certain and strong. It’ll take five years before you start feeling like yourself again.

This is Day 22. It’s a stormy one.




4 thoughts on “Uncertain Forecast”

  1. I hesitate to assign a time frame or specified steps to organic processes. I list grief as one of the organic processes. For me there have been stages within stages and paths within destinations.

    Thank you for remaining connected to us. You are welcome to take my prayers with you on this journey.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I too can’t say for certain the time frame for grief. For me it was reoccurring every time something significant happened in my life; my high school graduation, becoming a Delta, college graduation, marriage, motherhood etc. I was 13 when she passed, it wasn’t until my freshman year of college where I had my “breakdown.” All those family weekends held on campus were a constant reminder of what I didn’t have. The adult me now knows that even though our time together was brief, it was my foundation for the woman I am today.

    How it all will manifest for you will be different. You two had so much more time together. Give yourself permission on those days that are better than others to be okay with being ok. The days that seem like the grief is taking over allow that too. It’s all a part of the process. Lean on your support and now that those near and far have your back!

    Delta Love

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Thank you for sharing your journey with us all, Nira. I am always captivated by the pictures you create with your words. The thoughts and emotions that are ethereal in my mind or heart that you make concrete.

    I think unpacking the grief that is the result of a beloved one’s death is a life long process. I find it ebbs and flows like the ocean’s tides. There are days/weeks/months/years that I am content with life, laughter comes easy and the pain has faded into the background of my routine. But then a scent, birthday, memory, celebration, photo, or moment-needing-to-be-shared-with-the-one-who-will-get-it-best steps forward and the hurt overwhelms and my heart bleeds tears. In those moments, I choose to be present in my grief, know that it absolutely sucks, give thanks for the love that birthed it, pray and catch my breath until the next wave comes.

    Nira, my prayer for you is that as you learn to recognize this new land you live in, that G-d’s love, strength, comfort and peace will guide your way. May His love & light continue to surround you with those who care.


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