I penned a difficult reply to a friend who lost her mama to cancer, just now. And, I found it so interesting how easily the words flowed.
Sharing bits of my own loss, the darkness, the anger. And I began to suddenly see it all in a different light. I began to see myself as, a survivor. I, survived, losing my mom.
I'm not sure how exactly, but I didn't let grief win. Sure, I swam with her for a long while, but she didn't get the best of me. So as I pick up this book, I realize what I'm about to dive into.
For me, sometimes I have to do hard things, like talk about my mom's death, or read a book about cancer, or drive back by her old house. For some, that seems absurd. But for me, it's just right. It brings it all back to center. To reality. To life. It reminds me that she was real and she was a fighter and she was amazing.
And like I told my sister, I'll probably close the last page of this book and promptly open back up my own manuscript. And perhaps one day, I'll actually finish it, and someone else will hold *my* book in one hand, and think similar thoughts and do similar things.
And that, would be a pretty incredible thing.