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.

More Bloggity Goodness

• Working with the Broken Pieces