This week I started working on my books again for the first time since Mom passed.
Eight months ago.
I probably shouldn’t have taken such a long break. Writing is therapeutic for me, after all. But the words wouldn’t come. And when they did, they weren’t worth sharing.
I hate goodbyes. They wreck me. So it’s fitting that I’m diving back in by working on Summer, According to Sam, a story about a boy who struggles to let go. Mom’s in it, just a fleeting glimpse of her waving at Sam before going into Granny’s house.
Granny was another goodbye I didn’t take well. I visited her grave on Saturday, and it hit me hard when I realized it was the first time I’d stood there with my mind on someone other than her.
I have no grave to visit for Mom. She was cremated, and her ashes are with the same person who stole her life.
They’re not her. I know that. I let them go to protect myself, and I’m not sorry I did. But I guess I’m not quite over being mad.
I’m back at the keyboard, though, pouring my heart into Sam. Mom would be happy to know that.
She knows.
Thank you