Last week, my mom died.  Mostly it's all right, you know.  Generally speaking, my life hasn't changed all that much.  But once in a while, it hits me.

I'm never going to hear her voice again.  I'm never going to get a text at 3am asking, "Are you working?"  I'm never going to smell her again.

She'll never make anymore promises that she can't keep.  She'll never take me up on my offer to take care of her.  She'll never have to worry about the dwindling supply of her discontinued antidepressant.  She'll never again inform me that her long-term goal is to live at the homeless shelter for the next year.

At least, though...at least I'm not my brother.  I'd spoken to her.  I'd listened to her ramble.  We'd made jokes about her inability to go to the bathroom by herself.  He told her to disappear.  He told her that he'd see her at her funeral.  And then she had an aneurysm.

I keep checking her Facebook.  I keep hoping that there's something there to make it easier.

In the end, it's sort of a relief.  I'm a son of a bitch, but Jesus if it isn't a relief to never have to worry about her again.

I'd rather have her here, though.