I don't know if I can do this

 

I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I should have driven down to see my mother before she died. I don't know if I can get through this. I don't know if I can go through all her clothes and all the photos. I don't know if I can pick up her ashes. I don't know if I can get the few meager pieces of furniture into my van. I don't know if I can cry. I don't know if I can stop crying. I don't know if she loved me, truly loved me, or if the times she told me she wished I was dead and had never been born were how she really felt. I don't know if I can decide which side of her to believe. 

When I took this photo this morning I thought, what will I find at the end of the dock? What will I find at the end of the journey? Am I going to want to learn what I'll find out about myself, and her? Or will I find out anything at all?

I don't know if I can do this.