Today is a little over 48 hours since you took your last breath. For the first 48 hours, I cried every waking minute for you. It’s the first time I cried out loud, and you didn’t come.
The pain of realizing you’re gone feels unbearable. I close my eyes and imagine what your last breath was like. I want to know so badly, Mom. Did you know you were dying?
Phillip told me that you shared a story with him a week before you died about an out-of-body experience. You said you were floating over your own body in the clouds, and there was no pain. You said it was wonderful.
Mom, did you know you were dying? Gosh. If you did, why didn’t you tell me? Did some part of you know it was coming? Did that experience make you less afraid to go?
I am angry.
I have a voicemail from you where you said you love me. I saved it. I want to hear your voice; I don’t think I can. It won’t soothe me anymore. It will make me long for you and remember I can’t have you, and my heart will bleed.
I keep a notebook with me now. I write to you all day. Then I get angry while I write because I know you’ll never see it.
You are gone.
You went somewhere I can’t go, and I didn’t get to say goodbye.
I am hurting so loudly, I hope you can hear me in heaven.
I know you can’t hear me.
But I hear you.
I’m mad about that too.
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