I fly like paper, get high like planes...

My mom's favorite flower was a tulip.  When she first died, I didn't want to so much as look at one.  I like them now.  Maybe one day I'll love them.

It never stops being confusing- the death.  Her death.  You never think about death in this manner (or at least I didn't) until it happens in your life.  It's as surreal as surreal as surreal gets.  Most of the time, I hate it.  Some of the time... when I feel like her spirit is alive and protecting me, it feels like the biggest blessing imaginable.  I feel like she's my angel.  Love and white and pure.

The most confusing factor is where is she?  WHERE IS SHE?  I still can't entirely process that no matter what phone I use, or what number I might call or where I could drive in a car or fly in a plane or the volume with which I could scream, she will never ever, ever hear me.  There's nowhere she is.  She just isn't.  That, to me, is the most confusing part.  That she isn't.  She was, and now she's not.  She was a body that I could touch and hug and argue with and say sweet things to and a soul which felt and emanated happy and angry and now she's not walking around and now that soul... it's...?

Sometimes in my head, I yell.  I yell, yell, yell.  It's weakening to imagine her ears never being reached.  Sometimes I just want to touch her arms and be hugged by her.  She always smelled pretty.  She always felt squishy and good.  Mom... I miss you.  I like that I feel good when I think of you.