thunderstorms and heartbreaks

It's late, but I can't sleep. Normally I start to wind down around 11 and get to sleep around midnight, but thanks to that stolen hour this weekend I'm still bright eyed at 12:20a.m.

This week though hardly begun is already tough because of the prospect of what could happen before it rolls to a close. It's like a thunderstorm rumbling in the distance ready to unleash its power. You cannot control it, but you know it's coming and the only thing you can really do is brace yourself. This storm promises to bring heartbreak.

It's hard to imagine a world without her. 

She has been a constant pillar of support, loving unconditionally, but never afraid to speak her mind. 

She is me in 70 years, blunt, full of spunk and stubborn as a mule. She taught me how to hold my head high despite my stature. She taught me to laugh in the face of those who told me there was anything I couldn't do, and then go prove them wrong. She taught me how to play solitaire the "right" way and that wine is meant to be enjoyed one glass at a time. 

Her blood runs through my veins right down to the sleeping late and the love of coffee.

I wish I could assuage the ripe emotion coursing through me as I think of her so small and frail, calmly awaiting her trip to heaven. 

Selfish as it is I can't help but pray that she'll hang on, just a few more days, just so I can say goodbye.

It's hard to imagine the world without her. 

It is our loss, not hers. It saddens me to think that she will never get to see the faces of my children. She'll never take them to the park or push them on the swings. She won't be the yardstick that they measure themselves against every time they see her. 

But I will not grieve like those who have no hope. I will let her go home, trusting I will see her again when we both come into glory.

And until then I will think of her with every orange cookie and spice cake, with every spoonful of peanut butter and glass of white zinfandel. I will think of her every time I glance at my watch or put on a black dress, with every Reese's peanut butter cup I eat, with every game of solitaire I play, every pair of stilettos I wear, and every cup of coffee I drink. I will remember her when I see David Letterman, when I sleep in 'til 10, and when my children start measuring themselves by me.

I will think of her often, 

I will miss her sorely, 

and I will love her always.