Marching On


So here i am .. back at home after a long sad trip for my friend’s funeral.

I did NOT expect to get hit with a Troll-sized tissue box worth of sadness and grief. I guess i tricked myself into thinking since we weren’t as close as we once were, i’d be ok.

The business and socializing that takes place before and at a funeral really helps to distract you, ironically, from the grief. Seeing familiar faces that I haven’t seen in 20 years in some cases really puts the focus on the here and now. Not the who we just buried.

I didn’t have a moment to stop and really let it sink in until i was 30 minutes from landing back in Seattle. When i was forced by the flight attendants to take off the headphones, turn off the Kindle and just sit and look out my dark rainy window.

It hit me.

My friend is gone and buried.

Pictures of her casket kept flickering through my brain. I tried to fight it and instead see her driving her karmann ghia. Bitching about how much she hated the clutch… trying to find reverse.. how she had to have the fuel line replaced and we were happy the thing never exploded on one of our many trips up the hill to the PV mall or Fat Cat Burgers.

And the more i tried to picture the vibrant Crystal, the more sad i became… on a plane… staring out the window trying not to make anyone around me uncomfortable.

There’s a misconception that when the funeral is over, it’s all over. The sadness, the grief, the tears. This is unequivocally not true. I’ve lost two people that were close to me; my father and now my friend. It’s been over a decade since i lost my dad and i still have moments where i cry over the loss. It’s a lifetime. It’s not daily , but it’s life long.

I was unprepared for the difference of how i feel inside, and how i react to things on the outside. And that also makes me sad. My kids didn’t know my friend. They don’t understand my sadness and i hope they never have to understand it. But it is my reality right now, and i’m trying desperately to get back to my sarcastic, bitchy, pain in the arse self.

My husband is a lucky man, no?

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