Thoughts of this time (day), so far

Wind and rain feel more alive than the stale sun.
Why so loud? Why so loud? Why not outside!
I hope I do not get wet out here, I just want to observe.
Does death always bring rain like this-this day of rain to hold me and set me free?
Cinnamon, I remember Cinnamon and her death and I sat in this exact spot and watched the world weep, just as now. My mom was there, she sat with me for awhile.
Is that all I get? Is that all you have to say? It is selfish of me to expect to receive.
The leaves are bright... bright green, red, yellow... no, light rather, they are light! Perhaps the leaves of fall are trying to bring the light back. They do say the changing of the colors is begun by the shorter days.
Perhaps that is why fall is about hanging on, we hang onto the light of the leaves while they hang onto the branches. But eventually they die. The light leaves. The darkness is swallowing, humbling.
When does it become inappropriate to say "my mother just died"? It has been three weeks, reality. It has been always, me. She is always dying, to me, each day. I wake up and she is dead, again. So when I wake up in a year and she is dead, again, do I have to follow reality "my mother died a year ago" or can I say the truth "my mother just died"?
I think in: words-present, memories-past, film-future. I don't even believe in timeline, so it is odd that there are these alignments. I wish I could be more abstract, think farther, larger.
Bird noises can be beautiful. Incense, candles, flowers, leaves. Beautiful. There is something more to beautiful, we don't mean 'good to look at,' it goes deeper than that. Beautiful... it is connected, it is ethereal, it connects one to... something... incomprehensible understanding.
I need to pack. I need to pack. I need to, stop being sad! I need to pack. I don't have time to look at rain. I need to pack.
Do I have a very very very mild form of PTSD? No, that's not justified. But the eyes, her eyes, the eyes. They flash.
I didn't understand much about death. It wasn't unexpected but it was shocking.
NPR is interviewing Hyperbole and a Half 's author about her depression. Thank you.