Away.

I took the train so fast it seems like I barely hung up the phone after my mom called me. The 36 hours between her call and my boarding the train were filled with a bunch of things that I now only vaguely remember. All I know is that I am now at mom's place until next Sunday.

Grieving does that. A time warp migrates into your life, replaces time as you usually know it and suddenly, it's two weeks later. You've planned and held a funeral, a burial, and you're back into you everyday routine. Except you've got one less person in your life.

This person, in my mom's case, is her dad. It is weird for me to help my mom through what I have already been through. I can only be here for her and give her what she needs in the moment. The day no longer grinds minutes away, it grinds moments. A moment this morning when we were both up at four a.m. and met in the kitchen at five. A moment when the catering business was finalized for Friday's funeral. A moment when we determined she had called everyone she needed to call.

I cannot make this go away, I cannot bring him back. I cannot completely dry her tears, she needs to cry them for the healing process to begin. I need to cry them too - I was very close to my grandfather. I shed tears when the call came. But not since. I think it's because I am relieved. I am relieved he does not have to suffer in silence anymore, watching the world go by from the bottom of his Alzheimer-riddled well. Last time I saw him, he didn't talk anymore. I'm pretty sure a lot of it was his medication. But even though he was close to catatonic, there were his smart blue eyes.

For just a moment, I saw him look at me and a vague wave of rememberance flashed by, ever so slowly. He smiled and tears welled up in his eyes. I know he knew it was me. Because he held me tight in his arms and looked at me again.