It's been over a year since I first heard your diagnosis. I was in the car when I got a call from my uncle. People had been telling me that you were sick, but I’ve heard that my whole life. Later that night, my uncle and I arranged a flight for 2 days later. June 14th of 2022. You're 46th and last birthday.
It's been over a year since I saw your eyes. They were distorted from your illness, but they were unmistakably yours. It's been over a year since I held your hand. It was uncommonly cold in the 100° heat, but it was yours. It's been a year since I watched you squeeze your lips together with your hand, sucking in all of the joints and cigarettes you could, despite your jaw not working very well anymore. It's been a year since you held my hand and told me you were so sorry you were leaving me at such a young age. That you told me music made you sad now and that you didn't want to rehash or talk about or relive anything at all from the past. So despite all of my questions and worries that I held inside for decades, I didn't bring them up. Except for the fact that you taught me how to love.
When people ask about my mom, which is not often, I'll tell them of how you loved. I'll tell them about when you left the car parked at a stoplight to kiss homeless men, telling me that they need love too. I'll tell them how you often went to bed hungry because you said mommas always eat last. I'll tell them how in kindergarten you got my brother and I out of school in the middle of the day just because you miss seeing us. I’ll tell them about when you got me those concert tickets when I was 10 because you knew how much I wanted to go. I'll tell them how you trusted me with your deepest secrets. I'll tell them how you always said "it’s you and me, together forever.” Mom, our relationship has been anything but conventional. I have cursed you, cried over you, been scared of you, numb about you, hated you, longed for you, and loved you more than I've ever loved anyone else. Despite everything, because of you, I know what unconditional love feels like. Even when you are so high you couldn't hold your arms up to the steering wheel, even when you left blood from your fights on the floor for months, even when you were so drunk you gave yourself a concussion. I knew that, if in your power, you would do absolutely anything to protect me and show me your love. My heart grieves that you did not experience freedom from addiction and bondage on this earth, yet my spirit sings that you are finally free. Jesus, hug my mom a little tighter today.
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United States • 22 years old