October has come and gone this year and as always, there were pierogies rolled, stuffed and pinched. We have already eaten through the stash I brought home, eaten them pan fried with butter and onions (or leeks), tossed with seasonal greens, with a side of local sausage.
I want to talk about how incredibly important pierogie weekend was this year, to write eloquently about how even though my grandmother is gone, she is still there with the family when we get together. How she holds us together, even in her absence. I want to explain to you, dear reader, how strange and bizarre it was to go through her sewing room’s contents, her jewelry. To be in her house, without her there and to think about how we live our lives and the things we carry with us through it.
But I am not up for the emotionally draining task of opening myself up like that to a blinking cursor and an audience. I miss her terribly, in such small ways. Largely, I don’t think about it but when I do, it is sudden and the memories are an assault to my calm, causing me to crumple into a ball of sadness and tears.
And I can’t do it today. I have mending to do, laundry to fold, projects to work on. I can’t give myself over to the process of my grief today.