Crying at My Desk, I Write

 

Before your trips, you would write me letters. One for every day you would be gone, a little something to which I could hold on. I would open them carefully, ready to read your words. Each morning before school, so the missing you wouldn’t hurt.

And now I have no letters, no hidden little gifts. I only have this heart of mine, which continuously rips. I miss your words, I miss your thoughts, your hidden little gems. And even more I miss the way, I was prepared back then.

We didn’t see this coming, there was no long goodbye. One moment you were with me, talking and laughing, though I didn’t always know why. Your words were always comfort, a constant in my life. Now there’s only silence, the words are mine to write.

I want to do you justice, let your memory through me live on. It isn’t fair how little time we had, so few days to call you mom.

Madonna and Mary

 

Where do we go from here?

Isn’t that always the question? What happens next, what now, where will your next step take you? Normally the answer is laid out in front of you.

“Let’s get food”

“Send this to shipping”

“Put up the Christmas decorations”

“Stay up late, tomorrow is Saturday, no alarm needed”

But this time is different. This time there is no clear next step. No poorly copied directions, MapQuest print out, even a road sign telling me to expect curves and a dead end.

This isn’t where we intended to be.

How many times did I say that? How often would we follow our instincts and find ourselves lost? Usually you can stop, call, and restart.

“Should turn around”

“Go left at the big pine tree”

“Call so and so and tell them where we are”

“There’s a gas station, we can stop and pee, and find our way”

This wasn’t’ planned, there was not predicting this unexpected turn. One moment you were here with me, laughing and cheering about the election; suddenly gone. This was not where we were meant to be.

We had it all, I believed in you.

I believed in you. I believed in you through my first move, through the divorce, through college, through job changes, and my final move away, I always believed in you. I didn’t know believing in you would soon mean believing in the simple.

“You’ll be fine without me”

“You can drive to visit me, you know the way”

“You can find your keys, you know where they go, on the hook”

“You remember where your room is, I’ll follow you and we can go back together”

Slowly I watched as remembering to do something, became remembering where an item was, became remembering how to walk, became remembering who I am. I watched as you began to forget the world around you, forgetting who you were in the world. But in you, I always believed.

You believed in me.

From my first breath, to your last, I have to know you never stopped. I have to put my trust in the idea that you still do. My number one cheer leader.

“You are doing it”

“You jumped so incredibly high”

“You were wonderful, I heard you the whole time”

“You are strong, and smart, and brave of heart, Anastasia Marie.

Someday

 

Someday I’ll walk alone.

Someday there is no one else home.

Someday I have to say goodbye,

Someday you’ll teach me to cry.

Someday you will rest.

Someday I’ll fight to not forget.

Someday I’ll hold on too tight,

Someday I wish you had had more fight.

Someday I’m glad you’re finally in peace

Someday I break piece by piece.

Someday I find joy in your words

Someday I am angry and hurt.

Someday and everyday I try to go on.

Someday and everyday, I’m not that strong.

Someday and everyday, tomorrow and yesterday,

I remind myself, someday is today.

There

 

I saw it today.

The way death shone from your skin.

The glow of pain and loss highlighting your cheeks,

I saw it there among the sweat.

How quickly did this happen?

And I wasn’t there to warn you.

I wasn’t there to hold you back

Say it’s okay if you need to go.

I wasn’t there to reassure or to plead.

Are you okay?

Were you okay when I was missing?

Did you hear my prayers?

Did you feel my tears?

My longing call?

Can you see the feathers I sprouted to send my love to you?

I was there.

I was there when you didn’t see me

I was there when you couldn’t say my name

I am there with you now when the day is dark and the darkness is unknown.

I am there.

And I am trying.

A Space for Feeling

 We sit in silence now.

I think I learned to read so I had an excuse to find quiet. Most of my childhood, the background noise was your voice. Stories or ramblings, phone calls, and songs. I used to fall asleep to your stories being told. Now we sit in silence, and I try to fill the space you're leaving.

"Mama, I'm just not you."

Remember. You tried to convince me to talk. You forced me into speech and theater, which of course I grew to love. But I didn't love it like you did. I never searched for the spotlight or longed to hear the laughter. I connected to those around me, and grew comfortable speaking out of my silence. I never turned into you. Longing for the attention, to be noticed, to be the loudest and the most. Those are skills I never learned, I inherited your laugh - never your voice. And now I'm straining to hear what you want to say. I'm trying to put your thoughts into my words.  

My second language is Mary Pauluk.

I translate now. I adapt your long winded, winding stories into my own brief summary. I tell your memories with a slight point of view twist. I string together your three or four words into paragraphs and I make them understand. After years of having our own language, surviving as the "Gilmore Girls," I am the only Mary Pauluk translator in this part of the world. And the pay is not enough.

I hear your words, from a strange Chaplin's mouth.

They're nice, but they certainly aren't you. I don't feel comforted by their words, I don't hear home when they speak of death. It feels detached and I cannot cross the bridge to comfort. They speak words I've heard you say, tell me facts I know from listening to you, but their words are not yours. They are missing the coating of love and acceptance, understanding why I feel so cold. They speak, but they do not feel. Robots dressed in collars speaking of mercy. I always anticipated you would do your own hospice, and I would go through this with you. Now a stranger holds my hand and walks me away. 

Clingy

 I want to be a better person.

But it is hard when you demand to be in my life.

I want to walk on clouds and be light,

but your dark cloud inserts itself.

I do what I can,

create space between the land and sea.

Somehow your waves still crash on my shore

drowning, breaking me.

I want to be who I know I am.

I want to sparkle and float within the sky.

But there you are,

once again, 

a blind spot, fleck of dust in my eye.

The darkness brought within me,

the storm I create.

Is not who I want to be, I do not want to be fueled by hate.

But how do I separate myself,

when you stick to my side?

How do you play hide and seek, when you aren't allowed to hide?

Letter #3

Dear Lin Manuel Miranda,

I promise, this letter you will never read - unlike the last two (thank you for your kindness).

I am in the eye of the hurricane. I am hours away from news that may destroy me. I am waiting to be ripped apart and scattered. I am waiting to be lost, wander onto unfamiliar shores. I am waiting and waiting and I am trying.

I am trying to be patient. I am trying to have faith. I am trying to breathe, to light a candle and stare at the light despite the growing darkness. I am trying to not scream or throw myself to the ground in uncontrollable silence.

Silence. That is a new presence in my life. Not for me, I have always been quite, once received an award for my silence. But now I need to fill it. Complete the gaps for her, finish building the bridge. Already one foot is stepping into unknown worlds.

How do I do this? How do I take the lead and stay strong? How do I bend with the storm and still stand after? Those around me can do it. Those near me have done it. But I still feel alone. Terrified, separated, on my own. I lean into emptiness, for how long? I apologize for my non-linear thoughts, but this is a non-linear life.

This is not a life I expected to live, this is not how the years were supposed to go. So how do we go on?

Anastasia