I never realized that grieving is a process; a very slow process. I find that days go by and as I remember instances that start to make my heart hurt, I tell myself not to think about it and swallow it into my mind. Then, comes the time when all the things I have swallowed force themselves to the surface and I am forced to deal with them.
This is what happened at two o'clock a.m. last night. Everything boiled to the surface and for about two hours I was forced to have a good cry, a good prayer, and a good talk with Danny.
When I had finished venting, I sat propped against my pillows on my bed, surrounded by used tissues, my little dog, and my Hersey's candy bar. Except for the headache I had caused myself, I felt better.
I don't expect to stop grieving anytime soon. After all, forty-seven years have filled my mind with a lot of memories that need to be brought to the surface and dealt with. So I will remember, dissect each memory, cry and then place it back on the shelf in my mind labeled "completed," and then reach for another. The process will continue until I have either accomplished each one or until I lie breathless which ever comes first.
I know that through each step, my little dog will be sitting there with his head tilting this way and that trying to understand what it is I am feeling but knowing something is wrong. Each time, I will pick him up, tell him everything is going to be alright, take my last piece of Herseys and turn off my light.