Flatline

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 8:31 a.m., Saturday morning and...

I would love to tell you that I'm looking forward to the holiday. I would love to tell you that I have plans this Memorial Day weekend, that I have something to look forward to besides cooking and cleaning in the futile attempt to fill in the spaces of my mind in which you still reside...but I don't. And it wasn't until yesterday, sitting at the dining room table working through a list of three-year expired contracts and listening to a Tank playlist on Youtube, that I finally begin to realize just what the fuck I've been running from so hard.

Every day's a carbon copy of the one before. In the aftermath, that sameness, the routines I created to maintain my sanity helped save my fucking life. 

But it wasn't until yesterday, it wasn't until I took Tank into the bathroom with me, got into the tub, turned on the shower and immediately doubled over sobbing, it wasn't until that very fucking second that the light bulb went off. 

I so miss being loved.  

In the aftermath, I have been AGGRESSIVELY unkind to anyone who's even tried to approach me in anyway other than friendship. (You'd be surprised by the assholes who came out of the woodwork...actually you wouldn't be, but I was. Because anyone who knows me knows how deeply fucked up I've been for the past several years so fuck them for bothering me with their pretend, bullshit ass "feelings" and before you ask, why yes I do still have my former therapist's phone number and yes, I will consider scheduling an appointment soon.) 

I have been crystal fucking clear. Leave me alone. Don't call me, don't message me, I'm not interested.

But eventually, no matter how much time I spend with Amira (and that time has dwindled, Babe. She's a PRETEEN now!) no matter how much time I spend watching hour after hour of television shows I've seen countless times already, no matter how much I smoke, or how many glasses of Prosecco I have...

Even I couldn't completely repress the growing realization. 

I miss your arms in the middle of the night. You wouldn't let me go, no matter how many comforters I'd managed to cocoon myself amongst. 

I still remember your eyes when you saw me for the first time.

I still remember your sing-song trill of "mommy daddy time" whenever Amira would go upstairs for an hour or two, leaving us alone to our own devices.

I remember so much of what made us, US.

But...they're just memories and...

They aren't enough anymore.

You will forever be the love of my life.

I still pray that there's another world, one in which we'll find each other again. 

I still pray we'll get another chance to get it right.  

But until that day comes...I have to let you go. 

I think acceptance is the worst fucking stage of grief.

It's the realization that time marches on, no matter how hard we try to make it stop.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dear Mom

Dear Mom, I suppose that the act of writing this letter means I'm starting to accept that you're gone. I don't know how I'm supposed to live without my mother. You didn't prepare me for this. I've spent my entire life worrying about you in some form or fashion. Worrying about what you'd think of whatever rash decision I was certain to be on the precipice of making. Worrying about your ever-worsening health. Worrying about whether or not you'd notice the weight I'd either lost or gained since we'd seen each other last.  (Spoiler Alert: You always noticed. Carefully worded reprimands if I'd gained, exuberant congratulations for a loss, unfortunately it's taken me years to rid myself of the habit of worrying about my weight before a trip home. But one good thing has come from this experience. I've made damn sure that my daughter knows I will ALWAYS welcome her home with open arms, and will never, EVER comment, or give a flying fuck, abou...
Read more

Goodbye (For Real This Time)

Dear Mum, I was so busy mourning you that I didn't have time to fully acknowledge the loss of my relationship with Cap.  It's finally hitting me now. I can accept the fact that he doesn't want me anymore and I have with as much grace as I can. I asked him to fall back in August 2024 and he has done so. But I still hear from him almost daily. Mostly through text messages on a group chat he created with me and Fareeda.  This is how he keeps in touch. It's how he holds on. I usually don't reply to his political rantings and unfunny reels but he knows that I read them. And we Marco Polo about once a week.  All neutral topics. The kids, our jobs, how much we loathe Trump.  No mention of us. Who we were. What we lost. Who we have to pretend to be now in order to remain in each other's lives. He doesn't want to have those conversations. He doesn't do difficult which means he obviously can't be in a relationship. At least not with me. So though I'm mour...
Read more

Untitled

I don't have a mother anymore and yet...  Somehow, I'm still expected to live my life. Normally. Like a full-fledged, rational human being except... I'm not. Grief isn't rational. I wake up every morning with the same sense of loss, with the deepest HOLLOW I've ever experienced. I have Amira, of course and I truly thank God every day for that miracle. I have Amira and Fareeda and Jewel but...  Both of my parents are gone now. I don't have a mother anymore. I don't have my mother. There are no more doctors to call, no more prescriptions to fill, no new medications to try because my mother is gone. Resting in peace at last. But... I haven't gotten there yet. To the peaceful part. Most of the time, what I feel is loss.  It's most acute, most palpable when I'm in Cambridge. I've been back only once since my mother died and hope not to return anytime soon.  I went "home" to Cambridge for Little Desi's 30th birthday party but I staye...
Read more