Photo: iStockphoto
Nearly a month ago, my oldest childhood friend died tragically. She was a bright, beautiful soul, with so much life still left to live, and I cannot?no matter how much journaling I do?get my head around a world she isn?t in anymore. I hadn?t seen her in years, but because my childhood was so intertwined with hers, she crops up in my memory bank almost daily. She did before her death, and I imagine she will forevermore. (Last night the movie Casper was on TV and I had an urge to tweet at her, ?Reliving grade 7: Devon Sawa in Casper! On now!? I had the app open before I remembered, and I felt like I?d been kicked in the gut.) I ache for her parents, for her sister and her brothers, for her nieces and nephew, and for the wide circle of friends she left behind. Grief is a fickle bitch. I?ve come to understand that over the past year. After losing my beloved grandmother in August, and then my dear friend recently, I flip-flop between being on the verge of tears and feeling like life will go on. I have days when I feel normal, when I?m not triggered by seemingly benign objects and events, and days where even the smallest things will set me off. But here?s what I?m losing sleep over: I?m not much of a crier (as an adult anyway?my hormone-fuelled teenage years were another story) so allowing even a single tear to slip freaks out my four-year-old, Sophie, who hadn?t seen Mommy weep much up to this point. She has recently been acutely aware of my mood, for some rea...