So it's two weeks now. And a week since the funeral. To be honest, I still don't have anything sensible to say. Time drags on extremely slowly, sometimes it seems to stop altogether. I seem to be in an empty space and empty time gap - the past has been taken from me, and the future has not yet been given. The whole life is made of little loosely-connected fractions, some of them are nice and cheerful, some extremely sad, most of them just dark and empty. Here are some of them:

I took all her winter coats up to the attic last week. But I don't know how systematically or quickly I should remove her things - dad's desk is still full of her hand-written notes with dates and phone numbers and things to remember (she was his faithful secretary for all these decades). The edge of my book shelf is still full of her painkillers. Should I chuck them out?

I made some bread last week. I was very happy to realise that I remember her recipe and that it almost tastes like hers.

I just came from town, I took her ring to the jeweller for it to be made smaller so that it could fit my finger. There are only very few of her things that I've taken - her ring, her golden cross, and her little mirror.

My dad has started playing the piano again.

I read. Finally, after a few failed attempts, I've got to Dallas Willard's The Divine Conspiracy. Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince is waiting. And then Eugene Peterson's Working The Angles.

I've booked my plane tickets to Norway and UK.

Walks on the seaside do good to me.

This terrible hospital smell still haunts me.

All my nights are full of dreams - I guess my poor subconsciousness is trying to make some sense out of this mess of life. Sometimes she's alive, sometimes she isn't, in either way I'm tired by morning.

I keep a little light on over night.

We visited my uncle and auntie this past Sabbath. He told us stories, she made pancakes.