Capturing Moods

What I never realized about death is that there is so much stuff that comes after it. I thought I would just have to bury her and that was it. But no: there is so much more.

First of all, there is her house. My house. The house I grew up in. I have to sell it. I mean, I can't afford the mortgage and I have a job in a completely different city, so I have to sell it, right? Even though it's the house that I made most of my memories in. Even though it's the house my mom spent most of her life paying for.

And then there is all the other stuff. Her clothes, her books. Do I keep them? I don't have any use for her clothes. I could sell them all in a garage sale. But her books, I will keep them. I use to love going into her library and running my fingers across the spines of all of those books, the hard covers and dust jackets, the paperbacks with broken spines. I will keep them. Even if I never read them, I have to keep them, right?

And then there's her savings. Here's where things get kind of weird: she already spent a big chunk before she died. She bought a coffin and a spot at a cemetary.

I know, right? She bought her own coffin. Did she know she was going to die? I mean, was the accident actually suicide?

...do I want to know if it was? I mean, I've had suicidal thoughts before. I told my therapist this and all he's concerned about now is if my mom's death is making me more suicidal. But having suicidal thoughts isn't the same as being suicidal, is it? Doesn't everyone have suicidal thoughts sometimes? Like, when you are walking across an overpass, don't you ever think about jumping off?

Anyway, I wouldn't kill myself. I stand by Dorothy Parker's advice:

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp;

Guns aren't lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

See you later,

Lonny