I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sixteenth of December. My cousin passed away, and I just can’t believe it. The news came as a complete shock. On Friday, she was alive and well. She was here and nattering to Mum about how much she was looking forward to hearing my nephew sing with the choir at St Finbarre’s concert.
She complimented my hair.
Twice.
Honestly, I’m shaken to the core. I never expected her to die so soon. She wasn’t even sick!
I didn’t sleep well after hearing the news. I was awake until three in the morning on Monday, on edge and uncomfortable. I felt like I was anticipating something, but I wasn’t sure what.
It was awful.
Eventually, however, I did sleep.
I woke up feeling tired. I trudged through most of the day, but started weighing me down before the evening arrived. It’s still weighing me down. I keep drifting to the cusp of sleep, but I can’t go to bed too early; doing so would mean waking up at the crack of dawn. I’ve worked too hard to maintain a regular sleeping pattern to let that happen now.
Today, the house feels heavy — heaver than its ever felt. The grief has settled over the house like a dark cloud. Even my younger sister shed a few tears and she almost never cries!
It just goes to show how much of an impact one person can have on a household.
The funeral is on Wednesday; I’m not looking forward to it. It’ll be one of the grimmest ceremonies I’ll have ever attended.
It will be a grim Christmas for all of us.
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