There is a hole in my chest the size of a Buick

Hi Mom.

This morning, and for the past few mornings, there is a hole in my chest the size of a Buick.

I'm serious. How does it feel so big? It seems physically impossible for the hole to feel bigger than the physical dimensions of my chest, but it does.

It's there all day, but it is worse in the morning. I just don't want to get up. I feel like I could sleep for weeks. Not even my love for coffee is enough to pry me from the cocoon of sheets and blankets. My body feels like it is weighed down by a hundred anvils. It feels like I need a forklift to get out of bed. My limbs, muscles, and bones are dead weight. The heaviness is evenly distributed. It's as if the millions of cells in my body have individually become heavy, and the cumulative effect is an overwhelming heaviness and exhaustion.

My to-do list is sitting on my desk, untouched. Each phone call and errand feels like a monumental undertaking.

As a matter of fact, I know you're gone. But my mind is scrambling. I have no point of reference. The big pattern-detection computer that is my brain is frantically searching for a match for this. For some way to relate this to some other thing that it (and I) can understand. It keeps coming up empty. There is nothing. I feel lost. Adrift. Unmoored.

I've lost the North Star.

I'm so lucky and thankful for Dad, my family, and my friends. I know I'll get through this. I'm just at a total loss understanding what life will be like now. Without you.

We had so much left to do. I want the time with you back. I'm not ready for this. Dammit, we had too much to do together. So many trips. To the beach. To Sis's house. To get crab legs at that little restaurant on the bay. So much fun and so many happy times that will never happen now.

I miss you so much, Mom. You're the person I could count on to help me through something like this. But you're not there.

You're not there.