You may or may not have noticed my absence from blogland last week. It was mainly due to a family tragedy. My uncle died unexpectedly last week and we packed up the kids and headed down south for the funeral. It was incredibly sad. This uncle was not terribly old, was not sick and was adored by his wife, children and grandchildren. And this is where my confession comes in: I avoided thinking about the whole thing at all costs.
It is my defense mechanism. When faced with seemingly unbearable pain, I do every thing in my power to ignore it. I remember as a teenager sitting in my grandfather's hospital room, making up stories in my head, just to take me somewhere else. And this weekend, I spent most of my thoughts on life in a small town.
On the way to the funeral we spent the night at my brother in law's cabin. It is in Fillmore, Utah. This just happens to be the exact center of the state of Utah, and also an itty bitty little town. I loved it. I fell asleep dreaming of huge yard with a garden, a mini orchard, chickens and maybe even a goat. In my mind, I sat on the back porch of our old, but remodeled home, and watched my children play on the swing set. I could almost smell the grass in the sparkling air. And the pie baking in my country kitchen.
I did that instead of think of my aunt, alone now, and how she must be feeling. I did that instead of wondering what she would do, now that he is gone. I did that instead of wondering which of his grandchildren are old enough to remember him. I did that instead of letting the flood of emotion overcome me.
Sometimes, fiction is easier than reality.