Coming home

In pondering my closet, I marvel at what I chose to bring:  Eight pairs of pants, five of which are black running pants.  Nine long sleeve shirts, four of which are blue, and do not look good with black running pants.  Two stained blouses, one clearance rack dress, (which should have been left on the rack), and socks that are paired together but don’t match.  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but clearly I am not as prepared as I thought.

Everyone, and I mean every single one of us, is walking around with a weight on our hearts that no one else can see.  I carry mine around with a smile so no one knows it’s there and I can pretend it isn’t happening.  Last night I counted and I have 90 problems and 86 are completely made up scenarios in my head that I have chosen to stress about for absolutely no reason at all.  Three of the four that remain concern access to food, wine, and if anyone can tell my socks don’t match. 

But my last concern is a biggie, and has got me pretty down.  I was not prepared to be coming home already.  I was not prepared for my mom to take such a turn for the worse.  I am not ready to say goodbye.  I am not prepared to need a black dress.

I know this post is rather “flippant” considering the gravity of it, but it is how I need to deal with it right now.  Writing takes a little of the weight off, and telling people is my cry for help.  I have been expecting this day to come eventually.  But I am not prepared.