I keep falling. For seventy days, I've found myself tripping quickly & then immediately trying to backtrack my steps to seventy-one days ago, when I stood taller and more steadily with her here.
I've forgotten how to stand up straight. I've been tumbling & hoping no one notices me slipping into teary eyes as I explain my situation to new professors or when I sink into the scent of her old perfume which she preemptively bought new as my Christmas gift before she died.
When I trip, I try so hard not to fall too hard. I'd rather skid into the next conversation, slide into a different emotion, coast through every negative thought & lie saying it's okay simply because I just wish it all could be.
I anxiously pray that nobody notices the quivering weakness in my legs as I walk past the same chapel whose pews held me strongly on my knees in hopeful prayer just two short months ago. And I need to think that when I plug in headphones & let my brain dive into the same songs that I sung to her on her deathbed, nobody else can hear me plunging into the memory of a time when I stood taller for her, giving her my voice when she didn't have one.
I've fallen into forgetfulness too. Yesterday, I accidentally dropped off mentally & went to call her about my new classes. I tumbled over any acknowledgement of my new reality as I wondered if she'd send me a note this Valentine's Day. I internally collapsed when I told my friends "I can't wait to tell my mom .... ohhhh, uh... my dad..."
Filling my mother’s shoes will always be an impossible task. Physically, we shared the same 7.5 women’s shoe size, but her loafers, her boots, her stilettos, her flats, her wedges, her sneakers, her slippers they just don’t look the same on me. She walked like an angel in those shoes. How do I learn to walk like an angel? How can I even learn to walk without her? Having the same size simply isn't enough to make her shoes fit me right.
It's going to be tough learning to walk again & it'll be a life-long process trying to fit the shoes she filled for me. She taught me how to move forward, step-by-step, twenty years ago. As it turns out, I wasn't ready to let go of her guiding hand. There will never be too many trips down memory lane, but I won't let myself fall down much further into any depressive memory. She'd never want to see me lying on the floor. She knows how unshakeable & anchored these two feet can stand because she grounded them. While she might not be walking this same ground with me now, it doesn't mean that she can't still balance my life as I walk tall & straight & strong down here. And just because she's holding my hands from above does not mean that she needs to be reaching down to constantly pick me up. So, by matching the confidence & strength she ingrained in me with my memories of her own unwavering stability, I'll learn to pick myself up and move forward when I fall. And I will continue to fall, but I will also learn to fill her shoes the best I can, for myself.
As I teach myself to walk again, I'll lean on my dad to hold me up like crutches. I'll link arms tightly with Hannah, Michael, Grace & Will depending on them like a woman in heels does to a man wearing flats. I'll count on my friends' support like a pair of tightly-tied & double-knotted shoelaces. I'll ask WWMD? (What would mom do?) whenever I need a comfy cushion in front of me & my next steps.
I will try to fill her fancy boots on trips into the city. I’ll walk with my shoulders perched back and powerful as the wind flows into my hair, staring at the city lights in wonderment of all the possibilities here. She loved trips to the city.
I will try to fill her white sneakers in my blue skinny jeans on trips to the grocery store. I’ll take quick strides in & out of the aisles, seemingly following a reliable GPS that directs me towards every item on my list, finding everything easily without an issue.
I will try to fill her tall wedges on warm vacations as I sport a colorful & tasteful dress out of her wardrobe. I’ll order an Arnold Palmer at dinner & hold one of my siblings’ hands on the walk home. I’ll smile wider while wearing these comfy shoes as I look around at all my beautiful people together in some beautiful place.
I will try to fill her flats when I finally feel tall enough to stand on my own again. And in these shoes, I'll remember that I always could. I'll remember that I still have her advice, her stability, her wisdom to hold me up whether I be walking in these flats or a pair of her timeless chic pumps.
My feet are not broken. I just need to break in her shoes.
What keeps you up at night?
One foot in front of the other. Her shoes. My confidence. Baby steps, baby. Life's always been about baby steps, we’re just wearing better shoes the older we get.
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