The anniversary of the date has come and gone. And do you know what?
This is the way life goes. Minutes add up to become hours and hours become days.
Days become weeks, and weeks become months and months become years.
Year . . . can you believe that?
There is nothing as unstoppable and seemingly unmerciful as the movement of time, which, hence, this is what leads me to here and now.
This is where I am, ten years later.
It would seem that time puts distance between now and then.
This is not a curse, by any means. Time is our friend. That is, of course, if we use our time wisely.
Life happens. Time passes and in the interim, we grow, and see new things.
We meet new people.
We create new habits and find new ways to fill our time. We do this because we have to.
It has taken a lot of growth for me to be where I am. Even if I am not handling my life (or myself) as perfectly as others, and although I find myself in a difficult but familiar circumstance; it would be inaccurate to say that I have not grown or improved.
I am not who I was ten years ago nor am I anything close to who I was 20 years before. I am not the same person. I do not think, feel, or believe the same things as I did when I was younger. However, and at the same time, no matter how I age or where I go, or how I fucked up, or how great I succeed — I will always be my Mother’s son, and you will always be my Mom.
In fairness, I say that no one is ever ready for the ultimate losses.
Even if we know this is on the way, we are not ready for when the end comes.
I was not.
I say that despite the arguments and disagreements and the separation of space or regardless of the divisions because of our fights or opinions, no one is ever ready to say goodbye.
At least, not like this.
Do you know what I think?
We are in the business of taking life for granted.
That’s what I think.
We assume there will always be another way or another chance. We never expect the loss or the ultimate ending to come. When it does come, I have to say that my experience showed a moment of disbelief.
Was I numb?
Was I in shock?
I don’t know.
I suppose I was operating in autopilot when this happened to me with you. I knew there were things that needed to be done. I knew there were things that needed my attention. For example, I had paperwork to sign. Remember?
This was to honor your wishes and your living will.
I did just like you asked me to, Mom.
I was able to do all of this from an intellectual standpoint. What I mean is, the adult in me was able to understand the steps that needed to be taken. I handled what I had to handle and did what I needed to do.
I knew what needed to happen on an intellectual level.
However, the boy in me was confused and scared, the same as I was because I swore there were monsters under the bed, hungry and looking to eat my feet.
You see, moms are not allowed to be sick.
Moms are supposed to be there when we need them to be.
Moms are supposed to “make it all better,” like the way you made me feel better when I was a sick little boy.
I don’t know how you knew the way to get me to take my medicine.
But you did.
I don’t know how or why no one can make iced tea the way you did.
I don’t know about these things.
I can make a mean mashed potatoes, but nothing tastes like yours.
Maybe this is something in my head. Maybe this is an emotional connection to Mom’s penicillin which is not the same for everyone.
No one made cinnamon toast like you. No one made anything taste the way you did.
No one knew how because no one else loved us like you did.
Faults and all.
I suppose this was the reason the child in me was stunned. I suppose this is why I was locked in a state of disbelief that Mom wasn’t going to be there anymore.
Mom,
You used to tell me that dying is part of living.
You used to tell me that no one promised me a rose garden.
You used to tell me that life hurts sometimes.
You also told me to live.
You told me to smile.
You told me to dance.
Be happy.
You told me so many things to try and help me shed the weight of my own skin. What I mean is, you knew that I had different burdens. You knew that I had struggles.
You knew that despite the times you tried to ensure that it’s better not to sweat the small stuff — I made mountains out of molehills and big things out of nothing.
To each is their own, which means everyone has their own path. We all have own perception and our own ways of understanding.
Some pick up on lessons and learn quickly. Some people, like me, of course, struggle at times. This is not self-deprecating or defeating. No, this is nothing else but an honest assessment.
I make mistakes, like, for free . . .
I wish I could come home, as in walk through the door of our old hose at 277.
Or even if it was like before you were sick.
I wish I could sit at your dining room table down at our place in Delray Beach.
You would put down a plate of food in front of me.
Whether spoken or unspoken, I can feel the love from the words, “Here you go, son.”
There is a difference between intellectual thinking and emotional thinking. Intellectually speaking, I understand that there is a beginning, a middle, and an end to everyone and everything.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
I understand this on an intellectual level.
However, the child me still wonders about you and where you are or why you are not here.
We take life for granted.
One minute, someone we love is here and with us. There are times when we see people for the last time, and neither of us knew that this would be the last time we see one another, face to face.
Mom,
losing you was one of the hardest things to do.
No one knows the hour, or the day. I get that.
I suppose there are things harder than death to deal with, like when the person you love is alive and well, yet you are dead to them. This is harder than anything, at least I think so.
Living is not so easy. Life is hard.
Loss is hard.
But sometimes, the winds blow in a fair direction.
Time adds up and moments get between our “then and now” and thus, we can grow and improve.
I could use a good dish of your mashed potatoes and chicken cutlets. Like I said, I can make great mashed potatoes, but I never mastered the art of frying up chicken cutlets.
Either way, nothing I make would be as healing as if it came from you.
I lost, Mom.
I lost a lot in the last two years.
But that’s okay. This is what the intellectual side of me understands.
The emotional side is like that little boy, holding one of my teddy bears from my room at 277.
I am that kid, wondering why I’m hurt, but I can’t see the pain.
I can only feel it.
I’m not cut or bleeding.
No bones are broken. . .
it’s just a broken heart, I suppose.
This is when you’d come in
and you knew what to do.
I miss you, Mom.
Tell Pop that I’m doing the best I can.
I know he will understand.
Love always
Your son,
B—
The Written Addiction 