I think my skin got tougher.
When I was little, my skin was soft and bruised easily like a peach off the pile. So baby smooth that the wrong cotton might have caused cuts.
My skin was soft, and bruised, and scraped because I knew you had two arms to hold me and two hands to place the icepack and Band-Aid that’d hide the hurt until it healed.
My skin got tougher when your bones became frailer. I didn’t immediately stiffen up tall, head strong on my shoulders, a sandpaper shell trapping in this confidence and optimism.
Initially, it was quite the reverse.
The diagnosis, the first few rounds, your first stay away for weeks. That beginning part sunk me. I melted into tears and rainy days and sips to forget that unforgettable.
I fell into missing you before you were someone to be missed.
I didn’t call because you couldn’t heal my bruises and cuts and heartache this time, & I knew you didn’t have the energy to try. Although, you did try with what little energy you had in texts, voicemails, letters, & prayers.
At first, I drowned in the tears we both cried quietly. I fell asleep to nightmares of losing you. I darkened my mind to the pessimistic potential of life without you. Until, that was too much for my sensitive self to handle alone.
Then, I started calling again—appreciating that if my sadness became too audible at your end, I could secretly mute & catch a breath for the both of us. Inhaling hope.
Hannah taught me: In. 1, 2, 3. Hold. 1, 2, 3. Out. 1, 2, 3. Repeat.
I took myself to church. I talked to friends as best I could. I found three things each day to be thankful for—some days, three felt impossible, but other days, I could have found 300.
I stopped worrying about things that don't deserve my attention. I began to acknowledge that so much of what I worry about ruins the beautiful life that I get to call mine. I tried to clear my head from all the garbage and negative nonsense. I get embarrassed still, sad often, confused, frustrated with how my life is going or just at the fact that you’re no longer in it. I’ll mess up, causing the bruises and cuts that I have to heal on my own now. But I’m getting better at it.
In. 1, 2, 3. Hold. 1, 2, 3. Out. 1, 2, 3. Repeat.
I still wonder how to live without you. But, this type of thing—the type of thing that makes no sense and can’t because it just doesn’t and won’t and shouldn’t have happened in the first place—often causes you to grow up a bit faster than you’d like. So, I started writing, and singing, and running, and walking when running hurt too bad, and running again because I remember how strong you were and how much I want to be like you. I started leaving windows open and loving the rain and the way that the temporary grey skies actually made the flowers brighter and the grass greener.
I began to heal my bruises and cuts by myself. It’s not that I don’t miss your gentle hands and the way they used to fix me. I miss them every day.
I just started thinking about how your perfectly pretty life bruised for fifteen full months until the bruises were burnt into the box that holds your whole existence now---all the bruises & all the beauty. I began thinking about how while all of this was so incredibly unfair, it’s also my reminder to live like you did, like my body is 15 months bruised & still fighting for just that one more day.
Every single day, I want another. I want to meet the whole wide world. I will forever want one more day because there will always be more places that you hoped to visit, more things to love for you, more people who need to hear me say your name.
Bruised not broken. Hopeful not healed.
I am making sense from the sadness.
What keeps you up at night?
You don’t need to worry about me, momma. I got me in my own arms now, & when I close my eyes, they’re still yours.
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