Yesterday was the Blessing of the Graves. I wore my grief on my sleeve. This is something which takes place in November every year. The mass is offered to the people of the parish, for their loved ones, for the souls of those who have passed, and for those buried in the chapel. Although I have never followed religion strongly in the past, since Patrick's death this is changing. I need to believe that I will see him again. I need to believe that I will be able to hug him at some point and hold him in my arms, the way every mother should be able to hold their child.
This year I went to the Blessing by myself. I must admit, it was not as 'bad' as last year. I suppose I 'held it together' better yesterday than I did last year. Last year everything was so raw, every day presented a new challenge. Just get through it, just survive another day. This year was not like that, I could tolerate the experience more than last year.
The Blessing is an opportunity for me to do something which is only for Patrick. I have so few opportunities to publicly acknowledge Patrick that I relish the opportunity to focus primarily on him. It is just about him. Do I enjoy it? Not really. I wish I did not have a grave to bless. However, I am comforted by the fact that I have done my motherly duty for him. I do not have a son to care for so I turn to the next thing available, his resting place. I am trying to make his resting place the best it can be. This is all I can do. I am trying to make peace with it.