This is actually my mom the weekend of my dad’s funeral. She looks nice. Slightly at peace.
He died on a Sunday and we had the service the next weekend because she was unavailable during the week. (That’s her story.)
There were all sorts of people at my house coming and going. At this moment a bunch of us were sitting in the sun, out front of my house, chatting. It is a good memory – those moments with close friends and family – together.
Today she said to me:
“I’m 72 years old and for the first time in my life I spoke out loud the words — that my father and my husband had abusive anger. That I was afraid.”
I told her it gets easier. Once you say it out loud.
And reminded her of my poem about secrets.