Day One Hundred Seventy-Seven

The food was eaten. The relatives went home. The cards were written, the words were said. The flowers died and now the ashes are on the mantle. The well meaning friends don't come by, the good friends don't call. We are now alone in our grief. The solitude is incredible. The sorrow unbearable. Are we really expected to go on as if the passing of time will dilute the absence of our youngest son and brother? I've heard the words way too often, "If there's anything I can do please give me a call." I hardly have the energy and desire to get out of bed in the morning, let alone intrude on another's peaceful existence. For a person who's been used to fierce independence, am I really supposed to now pick up the phone and ask for someone to just acknowledge our loss? Who's the strong now?. I don't understand people and I don't understand why my son had to die - this just wasn't supposed to happen and nothing in my life has prepared me for it. I am bitter. I am confused. I don't know what is real and what is an illusion. I don't know what happens after we die, despite the fact that I want to believe our essence lives on. Does my belief in something change the reality? All I know is there is a hole in my life that will never be filled.