Feeling a little strange now

I've been at my Mom's for about a week and a half now.  None of us felt good about leaving her cabin in the "holler" unoccupied so soon after her obituary stated where all her children lived, ranging from 1.5 hours to the entire continent away.  Plus there's some other issues with her estate I won't go into here. 

I keep thinking that she'll come around the corner from her bedroom and give me hell for spreading all my crap out over the majority of the horizontal areas of the living room.  I tend to do that when I'm stressed.  Or mad.  Or sad.  Or all frelling three.

I slept on the couch for 3 nights, finally going upstairs to suffer through a bout of insomnia last night almost as bad as the night she died.  Won't go into that here.

Her memorial service was focused on her, her faith and her life -- though some thought her pastor mentioned her choir and Sunday School class so often that it came across like a commercial for them.  They were a big part of her life, as was her writing group, which I crashed yesterday.  It was a dual purpose visit, returning some things they had left with her -- though I forgot to ask about a strange pyrex dish which showed up in her kitchen -- and getting two of my poems critiqued.*

I have watched a lot of mindless Law & Order SVU reruns and some Netflix online -- might as well enjoy the cable TV and internet while I'm here, no?  And I've done some other professional things, like fulfilling the ethics requirements for my Va CMT renewal.  And finally getting all the poems from the workshop I took in SF revised to the point where I'm comfortable sending them out to the other participants.  Twice, because I forgot to put my name on them before I sent them out the first time.

I can't seem to focus for long periods of time.  Grief, I believe.  I did so much grieving for both my Weim and my Mom, before she actually died, that I feel pretty numb at the moment.  That's normal too.  Gotta go, as my blogging time is up.

 * I have found that very few writing groups know what to do with the rough drafts of poems presented for constructive criticism, so I've about stopped attending meetings.