This grief thing

It's been almost three months since my mother passed away. No. It's been almost three months since my mother died. You know, when I say it out loud, I have a hard time using the phrase "passed." I prefer died. Probably because all I feel is that she's gone. Some people say you feel the ones you love after they're gone. That they're watching, or that they check in. I haven't felt her. I don't feel her when I look at her pictures, or when I am in her home. I didn't feel her at my sister's wedding this past weekend. Nor did I feel her in the crowd, cheering for me with all her heart like I know she would have when I competed at the CrossFit Southwest Regionals the weekend before. I missed her. 

I'm not really saying she isn't there, or that other people haven't felt her, either. Please understand me. I simply don't. 

It's been three months. And although I can sometimes make it through a day without feeling that hole threatening to swallow me up, it still hurts. Today, I was talking on the phone with one of my dad's old acquaintances from years ago. He asked what my dad was up to these days, and then he asked about my mom. I told him she had passed away (I did actually say those words, oddly enough). And there was this kind of awkward silence on the other end, and then he told me he hadn't heard me. I repeated myself, and was surprised at how painful it was just to have to do that. 

There are still times in the day that I miss her like a starving man misses food. And then there are times when I don't think of her at all. Funny how that happens. Funny how fickle the human heart. 

I got a note from a neighbor tonight whose husband died earlier this year. He died of cancer. He was my age, and he left behind three little kids, the oldest of whom is nine. His wife told me how sorry she was about my mom. And she admitted how strange it is to deal with this "grief thing." 

It would be surreal if it weren't actually just real.