I watched Rabbit Hole last week. God only knows why I did since it would seem reasonable to steer away from such movies or books. As the movie unfolded the mirror of our grief was playing out on my 27 inch screen. The weird things you do, the isolation and the private sorrow we take to our rooms, our cars and the corners of the house.
Often the question begs how to cope, does it get better, how do you go on. One scene in the movie, and I am grateful for the eloquent words, is in the basement after their son's room has been cleaned out, piled neatly in plastic bins has stuck with me and explaining the range of emotions even three years later. To paraphrase: "It is like a brick in your pocket. Sometimes you forget it is there until one day you reach in your pocket and you remember."
I go about my day, year after year, and then for some reason I reach in my pocket and find that brick. And I remember. One time it will be with tears or another with a smile or an outright laugh. But the brick is always there and I carry it everyday.
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