I didn't cry when I read the news on my computer at work. I didn't cry when I told my family at dinner. I held it together as I shared my struggles with whether or not I should take my children to a child's funeral with the other women in my parenting class.
I can't cry. A mother's worst nightmare has come true and I'm afraid to let myself feel even a fraction of what she's feeling. I can't put myself in her shoes. I can't.
When I left my class, it was raining. Pouring. And as I headed south, down the length of Oak Park on my bicycle, the wind picked up. Lighting shattered the sky.
Wind whipped rain into my eyes. Streamed down my face.
My heart pounded as I sped up, racing against the traffic lights. I lost, stuck at a red as the rain intensified. Beating down on me.
I'm afraid to let my mind—my emotions—feel Meera's loss. But feeling something felt right. Necessary. So I'm thankful for tonight's hard, heavy sorrowful storm. For the thunder, rumbling with anger. And for the rain, pricking my skin and stinging my eyes.
Wanting to do something but feeling powerless to help, a group of Emily's friends decided to walk in Meera's honor and raise funds for pediatric brain cancer. If you're local, consider joining us or making a donation to help fund research.
