The Exhaustion of Never

These are some of the things I will never do with my mom again:

Wake up on a Saturday morning knowing she's there to have breakfast with Stanley and take him to the park.

Marvel at her Goodwill/garage sale/consignment sale finds.

Ask her about my childhood.

Call her for the answer to some question about my childhood or parenting.

Worry about her, how she's feeling, whether she's telling me everything or trying not to worry me.

Pick out some books from my shelves to recommend to her.

Call her about my day, or to wish her good morning, or set up a video call with the kids. 

Giver her a birthday present or receive the perfect one from her.

Take Stanley to a coffee shop.

I'm exhausted thinking about all the things I'll never do again with her. Sometimes, looking forward towards a future without her, I don't know if I can do this. I'll never struggle through a week towards the joy of her arrival on a Friday night with the promise of a weekend of fun. I just want to lay my head down and wake up when it's not so hard.

The Last

The last day my mom was alive...I've been measuring so many of my days and doings now in time since then.  She died at 3 pm on a Saturday, and that night I didn't want to go to sleep because I didn't want the last day she was alive to end. Let alone end with me going to sleep, as though it was any other day. 
That Sunday was the first day she wasn't alive - the first day that held no part of her, no breath, no touch, no sight or sound. Most of what I did recalled no part of her. I went to brunch with my sister's friends, I went to a tattoo shop and got a new tattoo, I ate dinner from somewhere I'd never been. But these doings were book-ended by waking up and going to sleep in her house.
The first day I went back to work, I sat at my desk and realized that the last time I looked at my desk, got up from my chair, spoke to someone, she was alive. I had come so far over the weeks I was gone only to come back and realize that I had to pick up the doings of my life without her. I rearranged my desk, now I look out at the window instead of at the wall.
I drove home from work that first day back without calling her to talk about the previous weekend visit and drive home with the kids. That might have been when the thought of going forward without her felt the most hopeless. If I can't discuss my kids with my own mom, to hear her joy, perspective, advice, empathy, how can I face the next decades of parenting?