About the Author
If I were to define what I look like, I would say I look like an average Italian American woman in her fifties. You may not notice me if I stand in front of you in the cashier’s line at a supermarket. If you do notice me, you’d think I probably was someone’s mother. However, of course, if someone asked you, you would not know that I was a mother of a thirty-two-year-old son who died.
I put my purchases on the conveyer belt, minus the items my son enjoyed when he was alive. I will smile when I acknowledge you, while grief, still fresh within me, is unbearable.
If grief were an entity, it would appear as a large fiend that sits on her shoulders. It would chew her heart while warm and thick blood bubbles down its chin.
This mother didn’t notice the total of her purchases, paying for them, the bags they were in, or the actions she managed to perform to get them home and put them into their proper places, or the day. It was the first anniversary of her son’s death.