04/01/23

Mom,

What’s the point? Of any of it? People seem to think I should choose to be happy. Like choose not to have an eating disorder. Easy to say.

Would it be easier if everyone grieved you the way I do, or worse? Their commitment to life forces me to place one foot in front of the other, and I suppose that’s good.

I’m tired. And scared. And sad. And angry. So many emotions at once that I try to push down but are perpetually simmering.

It’s too much effort to speak. To think. To move. I’ve been putting on a show for a week and sometimes it comes naturally and that doesn’t not horrify me.

I have nothing left to give, Mom. I want to hide from the world and be held all at once. I want my friends to call and text and I want to never have to respond. I want to be with your dog for the rest of time because she holds part of you, her sleepy chin resting against my bare skin. I want to live in my memories as much as I live in the now, maybe more, and that isn’t healthy but when your person dies, you realize healthy is overrated.

Or you realize that the true meaning of healthy, the one that counts, is alive.

Why is the present more real than the past? Why is my life unrecognizable? Why is death irreversible? Why does loss rip people apart and unite them all at the same time? Why was it you? Why can’t I do anything to bring you back? You saved me countless times - why couldn’t I save you?

You would tell me because it wasn’t my job. You are telling me I saved you too. I hear your voice now without having to try and it’s odd and wonderful and crushing all at once.

I live for the ephemeral now. For what cannot be seen, but felt. For energy. Your favorite language. The one we were already fluent in before it became the only one at our disposal.