It’s been three days since you died, Mom. I am still in shock, but I think it’s wearing off a little.
The weather is beautiful, and I sit outside to be closer to you. The walls in my house feel like a barrier between us.
Everyone thinks you may have known. Why didn’t you tell me?
Mom, if you ever thought I would be okay, you’re wrong.
I know the way you supported my siblings felt tangible to you, but the way you were there for me was irreplaceable. The laughter, the intuitive way you could read right through me, the secrets, the safety, the prodigal’s mom that you were.
I always knew that I could call. And damn, even when you warned me not to make the same mistake, I would be forced to call you again and tell you I didn’t listen.
Mom, you are the reason I became who I am. I am strong and independent because I watched you.
I witnessed you beat cancer when I was nine.
I watched you turn poverty into gold.
I watched you not lose a wink of sleep over what people thought.
I watched you fight battles for me.
And when I got older, and I was in a tough spot, and you knew my tender heart could not bear the thought of doing what needed to be done, you told me exactly what to do and what to say.
A lot of people needed to die to me, but I couldn’t do it.
I always had you there to walk me through it.
Yesterday, I found a text exchange between us from when you had a biopsy done at your mastectomy site.
I sent you a song I had heard on the radio that articulated my fear of losing you better than I ever could.
Today, I am living that song.
But at least I’m living it knowing that I told you how this would wreck me.
I am not convinced that you can see me. I don’t think heaven works like that.
But if you did see me, you would know I’m broken.
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