The razor is dull.
I knew it was before I packed it. But I packed it anyways.
The water is rushing beside me as I rub the conditioner on my legs. I can hear her outside in the living room, as we all rush around to get ready for Thanksgiving dinner. My brother is shaving in the sink behind me, and I hear my sister ruffling through her makeup bag in the hallway. The smell of turkey is wafting through the house.
As I slide the dull razor up my leg, it hits me.
That familiar punch of sorrow.
“It shouldn’t be her out there,” I whisper to God in the midst of the running water. I hear my dad’s girlfriend again, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “It should be my Mom.”
He gently responds, “I know.”
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
The razor glides again and again across my skin. My eyes are focused on the movement. And I wonder what life would have been like. What she might have been doing in the kitchen instead of her; what she would have made to bring to dinner instead. Would she have made pasta salad? Would she have made the cherry cheesecake?
It’s just this strange, broken family. Broken pieces of two different puzzles, attempting to slide them into the same image. And we seem to keep trying. Even if it never fits.
I set the dull razor down. I shut the water off. I adjust my dress. And I walk out, ready to welcome this new puzzle piece, leaving my sorrow to wash down the drain.
I’m confident He knows. He knows my sorrow. And yet He still calls me blessed.