I've hit a period of strangeness, of utter numbness about Rich's death.
It's almost like I can't get my head around it again, but it's not shocking this time. It's almost like he was never here, and then I see something of his and it hurts and I know he was, but my everyday life is so *normal* now, that there is no room for grief as such. I don't know.
I can't explain it. I haven't tried for a couple of days, hence no blogging, but it's there, on the back of my mind, waiting.
Yesterday was 3 months since we Celebrated his life. And I had a parent round last night, upset about her child's diagnosis, wanting to know what it meant for him. I could tell her as much as I knew. However, she also said she bumped into someone in town, just after the Celebration. When she asked her what she'd been up to that day, Mrs F said "Oh, we've just come from Rich's Celebration. It was a bloody good do." Apparently you could see my hand all over it, and it was a "bloody good do" and I did "bloody well."
I read at his Celebration. I read and I sang and I Celebrated my man with all that was in me. AC went to sit with the armourers, and I threw myself into the service. I cried more on Saturday just gone though, and I think that's what this is about in some ways.
Saturday was such a release. We called them home, and surrendered them to God. I cried, but we all cried. I was brave, but we were all brave. I laughed, and most of us laughed.
I think I am starting to re-member. (I must write that blog post)
