Because of course normal life means the boys will wake up puking all over at two-thirty. I guess that is normal. I was hoping for fun normal, though.
I got practically no sleep and everything feels really floaty right now, but I have a few minutes, so I want to jot down some things about the funeral. First, the hymns we sang were selected because they were the ones I sang to Mum after she was comatose in hospital. I have no idea if they fit together or not, but they were all old traditional hymns that I could sing from memory, and if I put thought into it, they were mostly sort of Easter-y and very Christ centred. Wait, there were also some Taize songs because Mum liked Taize. The Gospel reading was the Song of Simeon, which I also prayed with Mum many times while I sat beside her. The Old Testament was suggested by my friend Anne, and it was from Zephaniah.
I sat and listened to the readings and sang the songs and had little moments of unreality, and bits of stabbing memory. I kept thinking of when Mum asked me last winter, wistfully, "Do people ever get better from what I've got?" I feel like I haven't had an opportunity to put it together yet, all the details- into a complete narrative, the thing we tell ourselves when we're telling the story of what happened. I still have the moments. I know we never experience anything in its totality, just in the discrete moments- we never get all of suffering or joy or anything continuously. But since we look for patterns and story it isn't, it can't be real until I have made into a whole in my head.