Day Twelve

Wilmington, North Carolina.

The last few days have been hard. So hard. Once we get to a place and we start having something to do, it's fine. I can operate. I can load equiptment and even be social, polite, friendly. There's much to appreciate on the trip - the shifting landscapes, the generous people, the voyaging. But tomorrow will be the anniversary of the day my mother died. And the closer the day gets the more my heart constricts.

It's the driving that's the worst. Hours of sitting still. I can only read for so long in the car before I feel ill. After that I can only stare at the road. I turn my face to the window and the tears just keep flowing and I cry as quietly as I can.

So far no one has asked me how I am, or even what's wrong, and I can't bring myself to talk to them. I can't imagine sitting down in a diner over eggs and saying, "By the way, my mom died on this day last year." I mean, they should know - they were with me. But I feel utterly alone. The people I would normally talk to about this are far away. I feel lost. I can't talk on the phone to my friends, because I'm in a car with three other people. I am too self-conscious to break down in front of them. I don't know what to do.

And I feel waves of panic. It's as if I expect something terrible to happen while I am gone. I have nightmares when I sleep.

I wish I could put all this aside for now and concentrate on enjoying and appreciating this tour. I've never crossed the US in a car before, and it's beautiful. I wish I could love what's happening. But I don't know what to do with all this pain. I don't know how to handle it. It spills over everywhere making a big mess. I'm falling apart.

I just have to keep going. Maybe if I pretend I'm handling it it will just pass. Maybe I should talk to the others. What should I do?