Exceptional As a friends heart goes, so does mine The Clock On The Wall by Realist101

There are no words, no amount of flowers, or food, that can take the pain of death away. Not even a hug, or a kiss. The abyss that remains is too deep. Too black. We have to journey into it, so we can come out on the other side and join the ones who had to go first. Five long, but short years ago, I stood in my mother's bedroom. She needed something to wear in her travels to a better place. And all I could do was stand there. Numb. With tears streaming. Where had she gone? WHY, had she gone? So what if she had been old, almost ninety, she hadn't deserved to be killed in a car crash, just because she had wanted my brother to take her to McDonald's for ice cream. Anger at the ones who hit them raged inside me like a lion in a cage. The speeders had lived, with barely a scratch. And had refused to take responsibility. Typical. Dementia had taken her too, long before that day. As it had stolen Dad. But I still didn't want them to go. I was selfish. And in that selfishness, I couldn't deal with reality, with the depth of what had happened. Either time. I crumpled down, unable to look at her clothes. I could not choose. I couldn't let go like that. But I had to, I had no choice. Death is part of life ... and we have to carry on. Somehow. As I put the clothes in the bag, I heard my mother telling me, "Susie, there's only two things that are certain in this life--death and taxes." And she had laughed. A genuine laugh at the very ideas. And I remember thinking how silly those thoughts were. But now, I know just how wise she had been and who the silly one was, and probably still is. The pictures of her, of my dad; my brother and I, stared at me from the dresser and the walls. The smiles so innocent, unaware of the coming years. The coming sadness of life. And I remember so well, breathing deep, the air in my mother's bedroom as I found her favorite outfit. Complete with underwear and shoes ... the things she would have liked. Leftover change, coins laying on the dresser, made it all real. Her watch, her favorite lamp. Her scent. And I gently closed her door to my life with her. There would be another to go through soon enough. We are not alone in helplessness, grief and anger. None of us have a choice. We have to suffer in its grip. Its horrible, choking grip of hurt, that rips apart our souls. It's been five years since that day I was jerked awake at six a.m. by my son, who, breathless and white had shaken me with the news. My heart stalled. I couldn't grab air. I was in a void. And at times, I still am. The loss never lessens. The pain eases, but is always there. A reminder of the love between mother and child. That unbreakable--unfathomable bond. The bond that I now have with my own dear son. When my parents died, I tried to stare at the clock on the wall, willing it to go back. I do this still, wishing for what once was. But we can't go back. We have to look for another day. And be patient until we see the ones we love once more; somewhere, somehow ... when we open a new door. And see the sun shine once again. Recognized Author Notes Dedicated to my friend, Lee. (FanStory's Humpwhistle).

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