Very quickly, after exactly seven days, and we’re told to get up, which is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life
The week after is harder than the week of.
During the week of shivah, grief is expected. I could cry without feeling awkward. I could cry anytime. I could cry anywhere. I could cry all sorts of cries — sobs and moans and wails and sighs.
The week of, I could talk. I could talk all day, every day, because the audience keeps changing so I don’t feel like I’m imposing too much pain on a single party. I could repeat the same stories countless times without it feeling repetitive, and I do, because I need to say them, I need everyone to know just how extraordinary Mommy was and just how tremendous the loss is.
The week of, food is served, so I eat. Fancy meals, delivered by caring family and friends who share our grief. They send food because there is nothing else they can think to do that will ease our pain. Because there is nothing to do to ease the pain. And food shows you care, so they send food. Heaps of food. Carefully prepared homemade food, some of them; others order huge platters of sushi and muffins and fruit and rolls and salads from the most expensive cafes. Because they really care, and they want us to really know it.
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