A letter to you, part 2.

I went to see you today.  I’m sorry it’s been so long.  I find it hard to handle memories of you most of the time.  Being the holidays, your memory finds creative ways to slip up behind me.  Things haven’t been easy.  I bet you’re laughing at me daily.  Our family is certainly a handful…I’m sorry I didn’t get this before.

This never gets any easier, ya know?  I still find myself thinking about how I need to give you a call, or, maybe I should come visit you.  It’s then when I realize, I live in your house.  I’m already here.  You’re never walking through that door again.  This fucking place, mom.  This fucking place is killing me.  I understand you now.  A million times over and a million times too late.

You’d be really proud of me…I’m a big girl now.  You have no idea how strong I am, like you.  Men can’t hurt me anymore.  I’m immortal.  If you make the outside look scary, they won’t get too close to the inside.  It doesn’t matter, anyway.  Very few can wrap around my soul enough to grasp what I’m all about.  It’s pure genius.

I’m still mad you left us.  It’s bullshit, really.  I never got a chance to say goodbye and it’s going to haunt me until the day I die.  Things were crazy…and I left…and you got sick…and I thought we had time…and you died.  I was in the middle of the desert wearing a girl scout uniform, drinking whiskey and dancing in the moonlight…and you died.  I was 2,400 miles away…and you died.  The only person who knew me better than myself…got sick…and died.  And all this time I thought we were so different.

Every day I can’t be you is a struggle.  Every day I AM you is a struggle.  I’m trying to make up for lost time.  I’m trying to live my own life, but I can’t.  Part guilt and part fear…those things keep me semi-rooted.  I want to run, because I’ve always been able to run.  I need to run.  I need to live my own life, but I can’t.  I can’t.

I’m sorry.  I’m still sorry for being such a bratty teenager.  I’m sorry for not coming home more when you were sick.  Broke girls can’t fly.  I ran.  You were so brave and so stupid to hide it from me.  You tried to protect my heart when my heart was broken into sharp, tiny pieces of glass.  He broke my heart, mom.  He couldn’t love me.  You, with cancer and a scar across your chest, saved your story to protect my heart.  I was so mad at you.

It was cold tonight.  I laid across your stone and tried to get close to you.  My warm tears rolled down my cold face and puddled up in the letters of your name.  Someone left flowers.  They were fake, but the sentiment was there.  It was like the first time I’ve ever cried for you.  My face hurts.  Can you be heartless when it hurts this bad?  I’m heartless, right?  Wipe them away, my dear.  Don’t let them see you.  They can’t see me, right?

 

One Comment Add yours

  1. Allan Couch says:

    Wow Megan. Very heartfelt and truly open response. Anyone who reads that can feel your pain and grief and anger. Keep expressing through your writing. Its good and it’s therapeutic.

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