Grief sways to a rhythm of its own. Hard to follow, impossible to second guess. I step on my toes trying to keep up and find
that often I fall flat on my face.
When Dominic applied to the University of Alabama Law School, he had to submit a personal statement. The idea was to give the selection committee insight into intangibles that might make a prospective student a good candidate for the program.
Dominic wrote about being a drummer.
He made the case that percussion is the heartbeat of music. It marks the pace, leads the way. If a drummer misses a beat, it can throw the whole band into confusion.
My life as a bereaved mother feels like music that can’t find its way.
There is melody and harmony and sometimes sweet singing–but I can’t discern a rhythm and I don’t know where it’s going. Discord clangs loudly in the background.
These years were supposed to be the ones where I swayed instinctively in well-worn paths to familiar tunes.
Not ones in which I had to learn a brand new step to a song I don’t even like.
But dance I must, so I do my best to move to this broken rhythm.