It’s my first Saturday home. Alone. I’m crushed by the expanse of free time I now have. What I once dreamed of is now haunting me.

• I’m not squeezing in a morning walk before rushing to East Flat Rock to visit with Mom.
• I’m not preparing carrot sticks, apple slices, and water bottles for the 40 minute drive to and from Mom’s place. 
• I’m not running all my errands quickly so that I can spend as much of the day as possible with Mom. 

This is what I am doing:

• I’m staring at a pile of condolence cards yet to be opened.
• I’m staring at the tax returns I need to prepare for me and for Mom. 
• I’m staring at the boxes of Mom’s things that I need to go through to determine what to keep, what to donate. 

Tears. So many tears.

I told myself in those last weeks that I had already lost Mom. She was unconscious, she couldn’t eat, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t respond. Oh, how wrong I was. The pain of not sitting by her bed, of not holding her hand, of not brushing her hair, is so much more than I anticipated.