So, on 09/19/2016, I lost my mother, Vicky.
There are times when I’m fine, and others when I’m completely and utterly not.
I decided, it’d be best to write about these things, to discuss, to share, to do everything but let them fester, and place them in a place I can’t really say no to. Maybe I’ll learn something, maybe other people will, maybe at 55 she had so many maybe’s left, I don’t want to add to them.
Plus, she was a pretty incredible lady, so I just want to talk about her sometimes.
It’s been over a week since my mother passed, and four days since we held her funeral, and I wonder, am I, in some small way, going insane?
When my father approached the podium, the two of them separated by so many miles for so long now I felt myself focused on the smallest thing. This was the first time in a long time, as well as the final time I would ever see them in the same room together.
Amidst the waves, those times trekking through a world without her and stumbling on sobbing, sordid moments as if playing a far too real game of minesweeper, I find myself tied to that thought. This though wouldn’t be the last time I saw her face.
It was my first day back to work today, and I drove with an audiobook playing in order to stop the constant repeat of a song for mama, in my head, which I masochistically chose to be the final music of her service. I sat at the light, Cooper and Schrock, trying my damnedest between ADHD and I don’t have you anymore, to forget it. Not to forget actually, just to mitigate, to place somewhere that wouldn’t meddle with the cog I needed to be.
Behind me, in the rearview of my car window, I saw her. Not the corpse we closed the casket on, not a kind of sorta they all look the same black lady.
I. saw. her.
The funeral home did their best to make her as beautiful as she was in life, but that of course was an impossible mission. It helped in some weird way, that there was an emptiness about her in that casket, a mishandling of the alchemic balance of blush and other facial applications I can’t begin to know the names of, that wasn’t my mom.
The woman behind me though, at that light, was how I knew her. It could have been that I didn’t wipe my mirror off, and never do. It could have been that it was early. It could have been that the night after her passing, drunkenly on the kitchen floor, I begged for her back.
These are the parts of grief, I guess, that you can’t really talk much about. I still need to work, I still need to make sure I’m not imploding, I need to live. Which, in itself, is pretty fucked.
I need to come to terms with the irrevocable membership I’ve received.
I wanted to climb out the car, but I knew it wouldn’t be her. So I sat, and stared, for far too long at this woman who wore my mother’s face for a moment. At least it meant that in sickness wasn’t the last time I’d see her.
Anyway, the light changed, I face front, and hope that she’ll stay right behind me.