Talking to you…D-Day 7/3/20

At the hardened yet tender age of eleven, I wanted her to die. I wanted it to be over. To be free from her pain, my fears. But, instead, what time has shown me is I desperately wanted her to live.

I hesitate to write about this, any of it really. Because I’m afraid I won’t be able to capture the gravity that’s chained to my ankles. Oh well, I promise you it’s there…

Today’s the day, thirty years ago, my grandparents came to pick my brother and I up. We had been at a family members, where we were all stuffed into an above ground pool screaming and laughing, swimming. We were having fun, without a care in the world. It was the Fourth of July. They took us quietly and drove us straight back to their house where my dad was just sitting on the couch in the front room. The backdrop was a perfect little court outside framed by three large bay windows. I do not recollect my thoughts, or if anything was said during that car ride. The cushions were flattened from the love they had seen over the years, and hard from all of it’s secrets kept. It was decorated with a raised golden leafy pattern. Two blue suedy chairs sat close by. That is where he told us my mom had died the night before. I’m not sure what happened to the rest of that day. I think that is the moment I floated away.

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