more days

a soft sweater

More days than not, I wish I could go home. And not just to the little house on west bridge street, once painted teal – but to the comfort of my mom’s presence. To a time and place that is no longer mine to inhabit.

To the person who
made me,
saved me,
helped me feel safe.
To the one I could always go home to.

Since 15 years ago I have no more days with her. No more days with her whistling, cranking the music, swimming in the backyard, lounging on the porch. Laughing, crying, smoking, snacking, dancing.

Her, making everyone feel welcome. Her, a safe space for my friends.

That little house was mine alone when she died. So strange how a small space can feel so empty. I kept it for four years after her death. Slowly letting it go, but I couldn’t live there. I tried at first but it was just too hollow.

It had always been just the two of us, for 24 years. And when she was actually gone I felt more confused about the world than ever. How could this be reality? How am I supposed to live like this?

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When she got sick I moved back from Chicago to be with her. I witnessed her mentally and physically fade away. There was nothing I could do.

It was like watching a sweater unravel into the wind –
the body underneath slowly disintegrating
into a dust
that now sits on my shelf.

The comfort was striped away
and I was left
grasping,
gasping,
cold.

grief

~ it attaches to you, take shape around you. It will never leave you and has always been there. It lives in the trees and on your skin. It’s in the smell of flowers, the burn of a paper cut, the bug on the window. There is a beauty to it because grief is just another word for love. The pain is there by way of the love.

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These days I welcome any way to integrate the grief, weave in the loss, knit my own comfort. I accept that she is gone but will always want more days to hear her say my name.