Whom ever said "time heals", lied.

It’s been 55 days, a total of 1,650mg of Paxil digested, the purchase of 6 (yes six) books on the afterlife, a visit with a vivacious medium, over a dozen public breakdowns, numerous avoided telephone calls, 138 sympathy cards, at least a case of tissues, numerous days of continuous sleep countered by numerous days of no sleep at all before I could even think about writing the words…

“Dear Lois,”

And when I finally see them on the screen, I find myself reaching for anything in the vicinity of the couch to wipe my eyes with because the emotion that is now flowing from behind my sockets have caused the words to blur before me.

I haven’t wanted to update this blog because then it would become real… and not just a horrible nightmare that I can’t seem to wake from. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve reached for the phone to call Mazha and then realized she’s no longer here. And yet, I can’t bear to delete her phone number from my wireless phone. I’ve tried to put on this façade of strength, but inside I’m nothing but weak. I have mounds of “Thank Yous” that need to be sent out, but again… if I start writing them, it makes this real. So the cards lay upstairs on a table, with everything else I brought back from Texas. Even today, 55 days later, I was on the phone and was asked how I was doing and I couldn’t catch my breath because it’s such a blow. I had to quickly end the conversation and then sat in my car in front of the mailbox unable to hold my tears back.

And while I have so many thoughts running through my head right now of what to type, I’m realizing I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m finding it hard to breath, and equally hard to swallow. Since I’ve started writing this tonight, it has taken me over an hour just to type this much. 330 words.

I will though answer the question I have received from many… “What happened with Lois?”

Well, I smuggled her across state lines and she’s spent nearly every night wrapped around me. She needs to be ‘fixed’. In the south you can find quilt shops everywhere that sell new creative works, as well a able to stitch-up quilts that have gotten a little torn and tattered… I can’t seem to find anything similar in NJ. You see, the morning of funeral, I cut a small panel of Lois… the quilt that gave me so much comfort in my own time of need, and placed it in the coffin with Mazha. For the weeks leading to Mazha’s death, Lois kept me comfort, fought my fears, and gave me warmth. I thought it was fitting that a piece of her be placed with Mazha to give her her own sense of comfort and to ease her fears. I know that she'll be up to the challenge.