Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake up hours before normal, not for a run or an early morning EST conference call, but to drive west with my husband, though the skinny part of Illinois, the fat part of Iowa and into Nebraska. Hours of miles of flat Midwestern agriculture and the same again on Sunday.
We’re headed to a wake. My best friend’s mother – sweet and soft-spoken – died last week.
I don’t know what else to say besides that.
Despite having a family tree full of dead branches, I’ve only been to memorials and funerals for people I don’t really know. I know to wear navy blue or grey and not black and to bring food, but not how to mourn in front of others. I can help her through the long slog, the first holiday, the anniversary, but the wake? All I can do is hold her hand, ply her with food, and hope that it works.