It’s Odd Being Even
Mom went all in, devoting her whole life to our table of seven. But she never considered losing everything she counted on. Her life, one once fully invested into our family, depleted rapidly eight days after the initial check-up when we found out. Stage four.
Screw an even number. Fuck the devil 666 ways ‘til Sunday.
You are my whole life’s work. This was the last sentence I remember leaving mom’s mouth.
These six words weren’t spoken as delicately as she might’ve expressed them before, but maybe that’s because mom spent her whole life creating our seven.
Those six words felt odd this time, and I don’t mean odd like the number seven. They weren’t offbeat or bizarre or funny like our seven either. Nope. Those six words were mumbled out in uneven lifeless breaths because mom knew our odd lively seven would soon be an even lifeless six.
But perhaps six sounds more appealing to some people. Three pairs of two. Two pairs of three. Not to her. Not to us. Ever since she talked kids with dad, she’d always wanted five. And after we were born, the five of us never wanted six total.
Seven was odd, but odd was the only stability she’d ever expected and the only imbalance we’d ever known to be proportional.
She died November 19th. Eleven. Nineteen. Everything about that day was odd, except that we were now an even six.
Mom had nothing left to give, and the six of us had zero clue how to function in a world where she couldn’t give us all we ever needed. It was the nothingness that was most confusing. The zero.
Seven minus one equals six mathematically, or that might be the case unless that subtracted one happens to be your mom. In that case, you’re left with nothing.
After mom was removed from the equation, we were all left with two arms outstretching wider than was comfortable. Twelve hands. Sixty fingers just reaching in every confused direction for answers to the unanswerable—why & how & what now?
How could our home remain unbroken now that our familial foundation had been burnt down to countless specks of cremated dust? How might the car seats be divided evenly with her empty chair? What will replace the queen’s pillow in dad’s king bed? Do we leave one empty plate and glass at the dinner table?
That one horrible day, hospice nurses, funeral home workers, and a hearse driver all watched six final good-byes followed each time with zero response. As they stole the one person that made us a whole, their apologies were outnumbered by our negative silences.
The silence broke only to utter the two hushed words she engraved in our brains: thank you. For her, the six of us thanked her grim reapers and thieves.
We were sad, even angry. But mom taught us never to go to bed angry.
So, when I finally crawled into bed at the odd time 6:07 a.m., I even spoke a thank you to God and Mona-Lisa’d the softest smile at peace with His decision, even though I didn’t agree. I told Him I was happy that she got to meet Him first.
In bed, I laid diagonally across my queen bed with an evenly spread half of my body outside of the covers and the other half tucked underneath, two hands together, ten fingers clenched tightly to the next. This was the very first day of an even six that’ll hopefully last long enough to make odd feel odd itself again eventually. Now, the evens are odd but future odds will be too, until our whole family experiences Revelation as seven stars in one eternity.
I wasn’t thankful mom was gone, but she deserved eternal rest after all countless sleepless nights that resulted from twenty-five years of raising five imperfect children. Mom never thought we were imperfect though. Mom never even thought we were odd.
Although, we were. When we were together. When we were seven.
What keeps you up @ night?
Just thinking about the math I shouldn't have had to do yet.
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