"Maybe it's time for you to just move on and let it go."
He was talking about my mom.
His parents are both gone and he's mourned them, seemed to indeed moved on and let go.
I am not him.
Every year, as soon as the leaves begin to change into beautiful reds, yellows, oranges and every shade in between, it starts to come back. It doesn't matter how long it's been, I remember every detail as though it were yesterday.
It's been 12 years now. Twelve. I know children that age. They were coming into the world as my mother was leaving it. There's something beautiful about that. And sad.
Sad. That's the main emotion that haunts me right now. But this year it's mixed with anxiety from recent struggles that have only brought up past struggles and all of this is tumbling around inside me, threatening my sanity. I often don't know what to do to wade through it. So I write. Or I talk about it. Sometimes I talk to the wrong people. People that have moved on.
I was in the bathroom, trying desperately to pin back my unruly bangs. They were in that awkward stage, much like I was, even at 29. I'd had many people recently tell me how much I looked like her and I wanted to make that real by pinning my hair like hers. I couldn't do it. My hair was too thick.
My uncle knocked on the door. "It's time." and I knew she was leaving.
I ran to her room, only to be stopped at the door by a nurse. "I need you to put on the gown." I looked at her incredulously, desperate to get into my mother's room. I could see her and I needed to get to her. I hurriedly threw the gown on-the protective gown to not make her more sick- and moved quickly to her bedside. I knew immediately she was gone.
My father was there already, holding her hand, but I don't remember if he was crying. My uncle, her brother, was there too. He stood at the foot of the bed, silent. If you've ever seen a loved one leave, you know the instant they are gone. The light was missing from her face. I stood there, feeling the piece of my heart that was her, leave and turn to a missing piece. I felt my father leave the room, then my uncle, and still I stayed. The machines were off, it was quiet. It felt like she was in the room, but no longer in the hospital bed. I looked away from her body, into the space around it to tell her goodbye. Before I left the room I told her I loved her, but she knew and whatever I'd felt surrounding me was also gone. She had moved on, let go.
I still feel her sometimes, but not often. I feel like she's proud of me when I write. Or when I'm taking photos or doing anything creative. She would say she wasn't creative, that I must get that from Dad but I know the truth. Her creativity was bright in other ways. It was in how she spoke to others. She knew how to diffuse an angry child with a smile. She made you feel like you were the only person in the universe and that she loved you with ever part of her. Even if you weren't hers. And she was strong. She fought for what she believed in, for others and for herself until she couldn't anymore.
I still want to talk to her. Every. Day. I wonder if she'd be a mom that texts or if she'd get annoyed at my emojis and tell me, "Just call me you twit." I wonder if she'd still be working at the school, or visiting the library or if she'd be a mom with a kindle. I wonder what TV shows she'd like and if she still did crossword puzzles. I wonder if she would have liked the new Stephen King novel or had tried using a keurig to make her coffee in the morning.
I miss her. I won't move on from that. I won't let go of her. She's still a missing piece inside of me. As I grow older and of course others around me do too, other pieces will be added and it will hurt. I will move forward, not away from their memories. I will hold on to them and cherish them and remember.
All of it.
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