Those who knew M,

I cried writing this post. You might want some privacy while reading it.

Or to skip it altogether. *watery smile*

~s

…

So I broke my egg. The painted Easter egg that my friend M made me. The chartreuse Easter egg with the glittery beads. From my friend M who passed away last month.

I was carrying it by it’s little paper clip holder (ironically to move it to a safer, more permanent home) and it slid off the hanger and dropped to the floor.

Before I knew it, before I could try to grab for it. Before I quite understood what was happening, it was on the floor. In pieces.

One of the last things she gave me.

And I cried and cried because I don’t think I can mend it.

And then I (ruefully) laughed — because somewhere in this was a lesson from M about the unexpectedness of change and grief and literally picking up the pieces.

For now I’ve saved the pieces. For now, it’s still too painful to let them go.