December 25, 2020 at 11:34 pm. At this exact moment, I realized my mom won't be coming back.
For a month and six days, I cleaned while I became more of a mess mentally. I forced myself to relax in my grief instead of confronting it. I remembered to breathe even though I felt suffocated. I prayed while I doubted my beliefs. I drank hot coffee without her. I scheduled doctor appointments. I daydreamed about my future. I thought about boys. I wondered where I’ll move after school. I wished she'd come back. I wrote her obituary. Dad helped fill in the blanks. I spoke her eulogy. I started believing in soulmates. I finished up most of my classes. I watched movies. I blowdried my hair to feel put together. I left my hair curly to look more like she did in college. I forgot she died. I tried to fix my posture. I imagined my wedding dress. I brought blankets in the car instead of wearing a coat. I slid on slippers when I ran errands. I had dreams she came back. I had dreams that she never left. I forgot she died again. I spoke in accents with my sisters. I made a "..." playlist on Spotify. I listened to my sad music when I was upset. I listened to my sad music when I felt okay. I tried to talk about her even when it hurt my throat. I removed myself from group chats. I read letters. I wrote letters. I made phone calls. I fell asleep on my same side of the bed. I woke up on the other. I stayed up late. I thought about not going back to school in the spring. I couldn't sleep. I organized my closet. I read texts. I responded to most. I listened to every voicemail she left me. I shopped apartments online for fun. I went through her clothes. I got to keep some. I drove around aimlessly. I bought myself a new record player. I sang loudly. I tried to stop having soda. I drank Diet Coke. I slept lightly and infrequently. I danced in the kitchen. I tried on dresses and made up what events I'd wear them to when Covid calms down. I accidentally skipped breakfast and lunch. I listened to stories about her. I consoled my grandma. I sat by the fireplace. I taught myself how to make coffee in her coffee pot. It's easy, but I was proud. I lit candles. I missed my friends. I watched my siblings mourn separately. I saw them hug each other. I vacuumed. I celebrated holidays and birthdays. I decorated the tree. I packed lunches. I made dinner. I ordered pizzas. I wore black turtlenecks. I purchased art that made me laugh. I wrote in my own diary. I read some of her old ones. I started a new journal that’s supposed to act as a conversation between the two of us. I do all the talking in there. I told her about my dreams for the future and who I wanted in them. I searched for goodbye letters that she may have secretly written and hid from us. Those don't exist. I lost things that reminded me of her. I prayed to St. Anthony. I found them. I joked to stay sane. I spoke to her in the living room. I grew impatient when things didn’t go exactly the way she would’ve wanted. I became angry instead of sad. I got headaches. I took medicine. I kept busy. I tried so hard to keep myself together. I fell apart.
On Christmas evening, I lied in bed and realized that she won’t be coming back. Ever. Imagine that. I don’t like to, but I have to now.
My body shook itself to sleep in a hard but silent cry. My thumbs pressed against the interiors of my eyelids--- physically pushing off a headache that was forming from the combination of my being five drinks deep and me crying this hard for the very first time.
In a dream journal of hers that I found, she once wrote privately: "Maddie - I will wear a long navy dress to your wedding. Looking forward to meeting your boyfriends, watching your job / dating / social scene in general."
December 25, 2020 at 11:34 pm. She won’t come back for drinks when I turn 21. I won’t look out to her face on graduation day. She can't tell me if he’s worth it. She'll never get to buy that fancy navy dress. He won't ask her for my ring size. She can't tell me how I look in the next glasses frames that I blindly try on in-store. She won’t wave goodbye when I move out. She’ll miss being a grandma. We won’t get to grab breakfast and catch up. That dreamt up trip to Amsterdam will never exist. There will always be an empty spot at the kitchen table.
I hate even numbers. She told me never to say "hate," but I hate even numbers so damn much. No matter how much I miss the seven of us together, she’s not coming back. And you can tell me that she’s still here with me, and I’ll say I know. But we both know it’s different now. And, truthfully, it’s all so unfair that this has to be our new normal.
I appreciate the sympathy, but I don’t like hugs if they’re not hers.
What keeps you up at night?
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