Rage at Veronica's mother. Sometimes...yes. The school issue has been taken care of. Her clothing on the other hand....I have kept some of her favorites...but I have to face facts that she is not coming back. I have not heard from her nor do I expect to. When she lived here she did not ask to call her mother nor did she write to her unless prompted. She showed so little interest in her own mother that I'm sure we aren't going to hear from her. I have written and I have emailed her and have yet to get a response. I will write again anyway.

   Keeping the clothes? What am I going to do with them? I'm not going to send boxes upon boxes of stuff to New York. If she ever would return to our home, she would have outgrown all this stuff anyway. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

   And being consumed with this....I suppose that sometimes I am. I can go for days without having an issue in discussing Veronica...but for whatever reason this week, I'm having difficulty. I have scheduled another appointment with my Dr. for tomorrow. Part of me knows that I'm in trouble and the other part thinks that I am fine and grieving...and that's all there is to it. Again, I don't know. I think to myself that last year at this time, Veronica had been in a localparade, the last time I saw a particular bluegrass band, she was there...laying in the sun on a blanket tapping her toes in the sunshine....last time I picked apples, she was there, climbing the ladder and delighting in the thudding of apples falling to the ground. I miss her more when I am doing things that I know she would have enjoyed or that we had enjoyed together in the past. I am okay at home except for the occassional note that I find that she left for me..sometimes hidden in the darnedest places. I went to church last Saturday night...something that she and I always did together. The first time there without her was horrible...I cried through the entire thing. This week, my mom returned from her travels and she went to church. Veronica, who always sat between us seemed to be overwhelmingly missing again. Then someone asked me (very innocently, I'm sure) where my girl was? Didn't she want to live here anymore? That did it for me. As soon as the service was over, it was all I could do to get outside without just wailing. I'm considering not going there anymore because it is just HARD. I know it's not going to be easy and I have to work through this but I feel like every time I crawl back up on top of my stool and have a somewhat normal view of the world again, I fall off again.

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Michelle