Returning from the other side of the world is always difficult. You are tired and jet lagged and regardless try to jump right back into a full schedule. I was prepared for that challenge. What I was not prepared for was being back at square one with my grief for Morgan. It was like her murder had just happened, the rawness and the pain shocking in intensity.
Before I left for Zambia I had managed to find a place of some peace and equilibrium, fragile though it was. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed, bombarded by the obscenity of our loss anew. How could someone have brutally murdered our shiny wonderful girl? How could this have happened to her? To us?
I felt besieged, attacked. Even small things grated. Photos of Morgan that I had previously found refuge in, her sweet face all around our house, now a reproach not comfort. “Why me? You didn’t keep me safe. He walks free and I am only dust in your hands.” The unfairness and the waste of her great promise just infuriating.
I guess I need some time. Time to make all the bargains and adjustments necessary to cushion this mortal blow to our family- again. Time to relinquish all the dreams and plans, the assumptions about a future- again.
I am tired. It is tempting to give up, but I am not so flat busted that I can allow his evil to go unchecked. Will dig deep. I can find tomorrow at least, sure of that much.
241, My little Mogo.