A year removed
Before her passing, I was told my mother wanted to ensure that I’d be okay with her moving on. We’d often talk about death & joke about how she’d like her funeral to go — wanting her casket to be standing straight up, eyes open, facing the crowd, with intermediate outfit changes. Death wasn’t something she was afraid of. She seemed to have accepted the gaping, impersonal maw of death with a quiet cool that I'm sure now, coated the layer of uneasiness & fear that comes with knowing your time is ending.
It’s been a year since she’s passed & I'm a laundromat of clouds. I hear her talking to me in my head — my ears perked like a dog hearing its owner’s keys. I see her in my dreams & bemoan waking up. Everything is performative because I'm not here or at least, a part of me isn’t. I’m still there in the hospital room, looking at my mom; unable to move her arms, unable to speak, her face dryer than a dying rose. I wasn’t ready to live in the reality of having a dead mother. I hurriedly swipe past her face in my photos, swallowing gravel as I look for memes to post on Twitter. When I was told that my mother wanted me to be okay after her passing, I feigned confidence, shrugged, & said, “Of course, I’ll be okay.”
I’m not okay but I’m working on carrying the weight.
So what happens in a year?
I distract myself as much as possible. I mentally can’t afford a moment to reflect on my life. I’m in a constant oscillating state of being ‘okay’ & being hollow. What’s really fucked up is there’ve been moments where I’ve wanted to call her to get advice about dealing with her death. I suppose you can never prepare for such things.
I miss her cooking, desperately. With her being a 9th-ward New Orleans native, I grew up with warm, homemade soul food that I genuinely never thought I’d miss. Her seafood gumbo & bacon spinach quiche were top-tier. I ate plenty of “we got McDonald’s at home” burgers with unevenly cut fries with Lawry’s seasoning. I can still smell the onions and paprika sizzling in the hardened cast iron skillet.
It’s the little things.
I was taking a shower & Stevie’s “I Wish” came on & I just lost it. A cliche song to cry to, I know but when it hits, it hits. There’s a numbness that periodically cracks with certain smells, old songs & flashes of her face. A year certainly isn’t enough to “cope” with her death & I’m starting to realize that I’ll never be “okay” with it.
I never want to disrespect her memory by being unable to grieve properly but it’s not like I’m shoving shit down, I'm just…not ready to talk about it; or maybe I don't know how to.
I’ve had peers who’ve also lost a parent, help guide me through this specific pain & even though I hate the circumstances; it’s nice to find familiarity in such deep depths. Some have lost them due to overdose, suicide, or cancer — no matter the reason for their parent’s death, my peers express the same empty, deepening sadness that seemingly never goes away. It’s just something you have to bear.
I feel that communing with them is most important; acknowledging their presence & showing reverence in memory of them. She will always be there & I will always have access to that connection that tethers us. A year doesn’t do much it seems other than give excuses as to why one can’t reflect. I can’t continue to hide my eyes from her face in some hope to parry the sadness. This acceptance can’t & shouldn't be easy but I’m ready to start healing.
“They say time heals all wounds but that presumes the source of the grief is finite.”