To the remembering
/"Hang on a minute, honey; I need to text Lena first because I've not heard from her in awhile," I said to my husband, in a pleasant dream just before waking from my Sunday afternoon nap. And then that sinking feeling. "Aw, shit. She's dead."
“To the remembering and then forgetting again.”
Bliss and agony. Agony and bliss. On repeat for 15 years.
Seeing her in 3D dreams, anticipating her next call, is pure bliss. The sense of joy is fleeting and fragile. Like a sigh, there is a soft easing, a reprieve from the anxiety of forgetting.
And then that bitch, agony, crashes through the serenity reminding me there is a reason she doesn't take my calls anymore. Dead people don't dial in.
This month is it. March. The angel-versary, death-versary or fill-in-the-blank-versary. There is no celebrating. Only and ever, the remembering and forgetting again.
And what would I say if she called?
I've missed you these last 131,400 days, 475 weeks, 180 months, 15 trips around the sun, and four leap years. I miss you talking back. I miss you leaning in for a hug. I miss your big yawns when waking in the morning. I miss your silly faces making me laugh. I miss your "Really, Mom?" raised eyebrow. I think it was your right one. That part I've forgotten, so I just made that up.
Who am I kidding?
Here's what I'd say:
Come home, please. I beg you. Just for a little while. I love you. Please come and hold me. I promise I won't let go this time.
Not now.
Not ever.
I love you. I miss you.
I miss you. I love you.
Yes, that's what I'd say.
Every phrase and sentiment in Sarah Blondin's poem is balanced so delicately and beautifully. I encourage you to take a listen at Live Awake - Honoring Life.
Many thanks to Sarah for helping melt the walls of my heart.
