Lauren asked if we could make lemon bars. She used her iPhone and wrote all the ingredients in the notes section. I'm not a baker, but this was easy. I've watched you make these bars a thousand times. For friends, for your mother, for funerals, for us. Just because.
I've been dark and lonely and sad and I wonder if I should get on a drug. The whole world is on one but I've been going it solo since you died. Sure, the alcohol helps numb but that doesn't seem to be enough anymore. I want to go back to when I was in shock and numb simply from the fact that you were no longer here. Now it is a full deal reality. I'm angry and sad in some sort of combination that peaks and dips at such odd moments. I feel you with me, I do. But that's not enough sometimes.
This life of motherhood isn't easy and I need you to break the boredom. To do it with me. To be here. To call and complain and cry and laugh. I haven't written since the year anniversary of your death. I feel like death inside. Without writing I feel weak and slowly withering away. Yoga helps. I have a bunch of new mantras and self-speak. Still, something doesn't feel whole.
The lemon bars brought up so much emotion that it forced me here. To write it out. I opened the utensil drawer and prayed that the pastry cutter was in there. I know I took it from the house. A lifetime of your life, my life, our family life, emptied out in one week. I held it in my hand as you held it in yours and I cut the flour and butter and powdered sugar as your hand written recipe card instructed. You used fresh squeezed lemon juice once and the bars weren't as good so I used the lemon juice concentrate. I did however put some lemon zest in there. You know I have to put my spin on everything, but I thought you would approve.
Grandma says no one can make these bars as good as you, but that might not be my point. The two sticks of butter and the recipe card sat out on the cutting board since Sunday because Lauren forget to put powdered sugar on her list. The kids were at the neighbors tonight and for some reason I couldn't wait for her to get home to make them. I just needed to do it.
I'm going on a writers retreat next week by myself. I'm scared and excited and don't feel much like a writer these days. In August, Evan will go off to school all day and I'll have no more excuses. I have to write it all out. That terrifies and inspires me. What will I do all day? What will I write about? You died and all my hair fell out. I've worn a wig now for almost a year. I'm so over it.
I was driving in the car yesterday and realized that I've been a writer my whole life. Travel journals on trips, the college newspaper, diaries, letters, cards and correspondence. It is what makes me feel alive and yet I don’t write anymore. I guess I needed time. Time to process all this stuff that has happened in my life. I think it's been enough time.
I whisked the sugar and eggs together. I could have done that for hours. I want to be okay. I want to feel alive again. I know that's what you want for me. I read an obituary of an actor last week and in it he told his daughters to grieve in whatever way needed but to remember that there is still so much living yet to do. That touched me.
There is still so much living yet to do. And lemon bars to eat.
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