52.143 weeks without you. 365 days without you. 8,760 hours without you. 525,600 minutes without you. 31,536,000 seconds without you. All of these numbers and all this time has done nothing but confirm that I have to go through this life without you.
That you won't be here when I graduate this June. That you won't be there to witness my future endeavors, searching for a career that screams my name while I try to get by, regardless of where I go. That when I get married, you won't be making an appearance at the wedding, that you won't let my significant other in on the horror of how mortifyingly embarrassing my childhood was, about how I had an obsession with ants and that I went up to a different house to buy cheetos with a penny in Puerto Rico and you couldn't find me for like an hour.
(In retrospect, I would never get tired of hearing that story repeated again and again if it meant I'd have you back.)
You won't be able to see me start having children, and to be an active grandparent in their life along with dad. That you won't watch me or any of us do these things and accompany us and comfort us through the days where we are momentarily defeated.
And I can't wrap my head around that. There were so many nights where sleep hadn't visited me at that moment because I was so worried about how the afterlife is treating you. Worried about what you thought of me, what you thought of my siblings. Had I failed as a big or little sister? Had I failed as a human being?
I don't feel like I could apply the right words to describe that feeling of unfinished business, of constant uncertainty. Why were you picked? I've heard that people have a time and place, but they must've gotten something wrong. Why did you have to leave us? I've heard it takes time to heal, but I've never disagreed with a common phrase so much. Time doesn't heal. It puts a Band-Aid on a gouging wound, one that can't seem to scar. You become familiar with it. Time gave me clarification. (My soul sure as hell does not like this clarification.)
If I knew that saying goodnight, most likely followed with an I love you, were going to be our last exchanged words I would've curled up in bed with you. You would protest, especially if you didn't know, but I would be stubborn and not leave. I would've held onto you until I left for school that morning, and even then I probably wouldn't have went. As if I had an expectation that you'd disappear through thin air and not go through what you had to. But it's reality, and God does it sting.
I love you so much mom, and I will always miss you. The repetitiveness of these words does not compare to how much meaning and emotion they have behind them. I'm not going to lie, on my worst days it feels like you took my heart with you.
The world losing you and your grasp of reality was such a tragic loss. Your stories about us might've been horrific, but the love you had for your children, for basically anyone, was admirable. You were so selfless and I would not give back any of the memories that I share with you. You left us on good terms and yet it feels so wrong. You should be here. You should be helping us get through this terrible world, full of evil humanity but yet so kind and surreal. Through this world that is bittersweet. It comes with so many delightful surprises and horrendous nightmares.
You, in your sobriety, was never the latter.
But the thought of a life without you is a nightmare, one that we have to cope with. I will do my best to cushion the fall of our family, our friends, just as you would've done. You're my reminder that while there is a breaking point, you have so much to live for, so many people to prove wrong and so many to cherish.
You're my guardian angel, the one person I can't wait to see in the afterlife. Till I see you again, mommy. Again, as we would squeeze your hand three times in doctor's offices and public events that we could not verbally say it, I love you. I love you more.