Hi. It's been a while mom.
I've had a lot of time to realize that grieving never ends. Mattia and I always talk about how it feels to grieve, how it feels to be fifteen and sixteen and lose a parent. Especially to things that for some reason, society has permitted me to be ashamed of. On my better days, I'm not ashamed.
It's a learning experience.
I hate looking back at the past and realizing that time is distancing myself from the tangible you. It's allowing me to always question how much of it has really passed. The clocks tick, it's agonizing. I keep replaying the past in my head, especially considering all the things I think that have happened that put me light years ahead of people my age. And I don't say that with any tinge of superiority. I say that with countless hours of having to reconsider it, with pounding regret I cover with a Band-Aid. That Band-Aid has a heck of a lot of adhesive to it though, because it works a lot.
I look back at all of the things I've written not knowing about all that is yet to come. You were my world, all that I have ever known, in more ways than one. I have a lot of angry entries regarding you. I want to fix that, I want to look at all of the situations that the both of us have put myself in, and write about them without breaking my pencil lead due to how hard I am pressing onto the paper. I want to write and rub my hands together and sip my lukewarm coffee and count my blessings; the people who used to be your people, the people who are going to be my people. Your memory has taught me to count them. I have taught myself that.
I don't want to remember the day you left us. I want to remember the day you arrived. August 9th, 1973. The day you blessed your dad and mostly your mom. Grandma Dana is my reminder that I can get through this. She has been a different type of strong than I have for so long. Loving you the way I can imagine you loved me. She has never thought you were a mistake. You weren't at all, mom. Grandma and I's strong has become similar. We are both dealing with having to lose a crucial part of us. What connected us. Mom, I hope you're watching after her. In all honesty, I don't think I could handle losing her. It's a negative thought that I have to live with, but it's there and it's a constant what-if. It's not something I should be worried about, but that is also something I have gained when I lost you.
I am in the constant fear of losing everyone around me. It's always a thought. I consider the way other people have lost their loved ones, ways that are terribly normal, and I think that those things are much more likely to happen to the rest of everyone that I cherish. I can't drive without having a million what-ifs chase me, my doubt in all the drivers around me, thinking that because we think so differently, we're going to make terrible choices with our signals and steering wheels. I didn't think it was as overwhelming as it actually is. I have tried to lock it somewhere safe, but it followed me all the way to my road test, tested me until I couldn't pass. I know now I'm adding power to my fears, not letting them crumble but more so giving them super glue so that they stick. They're not going to anymore, I've read a picture with a quote that said something along the lines of people surviving their problems, because they have before and they will always come across situations that they can't seem to get out of but inevitably do.
I miss you. A lot. That much hasn't changed. It's just I'm coming to the realization that each year without you teaches me different things. The first year taught me how, and I say this without knowing how to word it, I'm not invincible and that I am going to lose people and it's never going to hurt as much as losing you has. And now, this second year has taught me that what people do to me isn't as unforgivable as I perceive it to be and that no relationship with anyone is as promising as they say. Actions REALLY do say a lot more than words ever could. My worth grows, but not without uncertainties slithering through like the serpents did when they entered the garden of Eden. My garden of Eden is not as invincible as I perceived it to be either. With sweet, good things come inadmissible, bad things. I'm not going to act like they're going to disappear anymore. They're not exactly hammered down either.
You are not going to be forgotten. I promise you that. Thank you for all you have given me when you were here. I mean, you're gone and you're still providing for me. I will always find you in my work, in my face, in my belongings. I'm an adult now too, mom. At least society has granted me to be one. My tattoo means a lot to me too. I wonder what you think about it. It's not the last one I'm going to get to honor you either.
I know that I'm never going to look at a human being and call them mom ever again. It hits me all the time. I see other people do it, and you'd think I'd envy it, but I love hearing it. I love that they are given that privilege. And I hurt just as much for the people who can't call someone dad. I never take the privilege that you gave me to call Carlos dad for granted either. I love you two so so much. Thank you for everything.
I do this for you mama. I graduated high school for you, and I always thought it was going to be in spite of you but I want to smack myself for ever thinking that. My accomplishments in the future will be for you too, mom. Just as the others have. I will live this life that I won't get to experience with the tangible you.
I love you. We love you. Happy 45th birthday, mom.
[The picture is of my grandma and me on my graduation day. She is literally my rock.]