I find myself reading through the journals that I wrote during my mom’s illness when I least expect it. Like tonight. I came home after a long dance rehearsal and went to my bedside table to pull out a notebook to make some notes. But once I see those journals, I can never resist taking one out and reading. And the having a hard cry. A cry so hard that there is no sound.
Tonight I flipped to this entry:
“Thursday, April 16, 2009
Today when I got to the hospital, mom wasn’t able to show any facial recognition of me.”
And I thought, “That would have been tomorrow, 6 years ago. And isn’t that a shitty entry.”