Nobody told me about the exhaustion. And if they had, I don’t suppose I’d have believed them, or thought it would ever apply to me.
It’s now almost 5 months since the great catastrophe. After the “excitement” of getting to Texas in a hurry, the emotional events of that week, returning for the Irish funeral and then the dreadful day of doom scattering on the Sugarloaf—after all this comes the daily grind of grief.
Much of the grief is self-serving; did I love him enough? did he know? did he love me? why did I do such and such when he was 10? did he know his time was limited? is that why he said such and such? why did I not pick that up? why did he feel he could not confide in me? … you can imagine the little stories I invented – without any evidence.
The self-pity has…
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