And on the sixth day, there was a post

Cue me poking my head out from behind this screen, Hello?

I have not been here lately. Here, not as in here on this screen, but here. Of my normal, in my head, in my heart, in my inspiration.

Sometimes I think that when Dad died, it was so life-changing for me that in a way, I changed shapes and can't fit back into the shape of the life I had before he passed. It's not that I don't feel whole, it's that I don't always recognize this new life or myself in it. Still, I think that perhaps it's best that you get no warning, perhaps it's best that one day someone is suddenly gone, or your mother suddenly switches roles with you and you and your brother become the parents overnight. Because if you were told or warned, you might run screaming for the hills. Instead, you dig your heels in deep and get to work.

At lunch Sunday my friend said to me, You seem like you're okay with everything. That's so good, but are you processing?

Something about being in your 40's makes conversation like this not only acceptable, but comprehensible. Immediately I replied that of course I was processing. And as I took a sip of my drink, I thought, Well, no, I'm not processing. What the heck does that mean? Processing what into what?

And that's when that stupid light bulb went off - That's why you're not writing lately. You're not processing. You have no idea what you feel.

Then the me that wears the boots around, well, me, stood up and put a stop to that bunk. I know what I feel and I don't need to process it into something else because it is what it is. I'm just not sure it makes for interesting reading. So, you know, it's hard taking care of my mother. It's hard to see her so frail and oh-so-dependent. Hard to juggle schedules, be home by 8:00. It's hard to argue with my brother. Hard to come to work and fear I smell like soiled linens and baby powder. I could continue the next 50 sentences with It's hard and fill in the words. But I can't stand complainers or the whole Woe is me stuff. Life is hard. So what? Keep an eye out for the soft spots and get on with yourself.

She looked at me last night, her eyes childlike and sad but shining.

I miss your father.

I was sitting on his side of their bed. I took her hand, I miss him too, Mom.

I've never been sick without him here to take care of me. It's so hard.

Fifty-five years and she's lost without him. That's hard. But she looked so beautiful telling me that she missed him. My eyes took a picture of her. It's a moment captured, like catching a glimpse of fireflies on the hill.

Life simplifies at times like these. Shapes become square, round, triangle. There's no such thing as an octagon. If you're tired, you sleep. If you're hungry, you eat. If you need to work through the weekend, you do so. No second thoughts, no questions asked. It's what you do. The very back-to-basics nature of that is what makes me so okay. It is what it is.