Those days.

They have become very few and far between, but there are still days that hit me like a silent bullet to my chest.  It actually takes me a half a day to realize why I am starting to cry in the Subway line waiting for my turkey and provolone on wheat.  My insides are just jumbled, my skin is paper thin, and my ability to take even a sideways glance is non-existent.  I feel as though I am made of the most delicate porcelain; my being is fragile, breakable and unable to be touched.

These are the days that, even at 40 years old, I become acutely aware that I am longing for my Mom to tell me everything is going to be OK.  The need doesn't come around much anymore, but it usually follows a period when shit has hit the fan in triplicate, my hormones are ping ponging all over the place, the Hubby has been on long stretches of work and commuting and I'm left spinning and feeling out of control of even the tiniest thing.  

The thing is, a Mom is supposed to be the constant, the one who will always kiss my hurts away.  That is the way it is supposed to work. And then they die. And no matter how amazing my friends and family and framily are, I just want, need really, to put my head in her lap and have her reassure me that I am not a big screw-up.  I try to comprehend how, in my life that is filled with so much love from others, I can in these days feel so utterly and painfully alone from the death of just one person.  

And I have been through this enough times that I know there is no silver lining to these days.  There is no comfort in the trite greeting card cliches of "You know she is always with you."  Those comments are as soothing as a ghost pepper to my cornea.  There is nothing that makes it better.  I just know that eventually I will fall asleep and wake up to a new day, with puffy eyes and a slightly better outlook.  But in the meantime I sit in my Wonder Woman underwear by my snoring oblivious spouse and try to put words to the pain, hoping that maybe if I can describe it a bit that maybe it'll ease the pressure... like opening a festering wound a bit, allowing the yuck to drain out slightly and maybe it won't hurt quite so much.