Sit Down Mom, We Need to Talk

A letter written to my dead mother on the nine year anniversary of her passing.

Dear Mom,

I get that our lives are far from picture perfect; that the frame, even in the best of lights, doesn’t match up quite right. I’m sorry that you never lived up to the expectations placed upon you. I’m sorry that you couldn’t grasp why so much was inexplicably out of your control. It was life.

I wished you would stop trying to make every line match up right; or that you would stop trying to make everything fit neatly into black and white. I wished you could just be happy with the crooked of our grins, the imperfections of our joy, and the cracks in our skin. And no, it isn’t some mortal sin to be content with the perfectly shattered way we try to find our hearts.

I had hoped that you would have found a way to stop trying to be a novelty; that you would stop putting yourself on display as an idol of faithfulness.

Debra, my mother, Patron Saint of Losing Her Shit.

I know, mom, that this is what they taught us – to strive to be that image worth bearing. But in all the entwining backbiting raking of rows against each others’ backs they somehow forgot what mattered. They somehow forgot how to look up.

While you endlessly leapt and bound to an ever distancing horizon, grasping for the blinding of their light, trying to find them, you lost us. Left us to walk stupidly following the footprints in your ashes. We never understood your mutterings of UFOs, the rapture, phasers, the rapture, husky puppies, the rapture, prophecy, and the Second Coming of Jesus H Christ.

You gave up the better part of you to please them – which is to be them, unaware of how they used you as another coin in their ever growing stockpile of love debt. I know this because when you were gone and I was ripping the veils from walls they tried to get me to fall back in line with the reminder of the “love gifts” they had poured out on us. I didn’t want the gifts, I wanted the love, but that is the subject for another letter.

Stop haunting me.

You don’t get to haunt me.

I won’t apologize for the bond fire blaze of bridges I have left behind me. It is the only thing I could do to keep from becoming you or him; Patron Saint of Losing Her Shit or The Kindgomless King.

Even after nine years I’m still picking up the pieces of this mess you left behind. Even after nine years I’m still rooted in the bitter stage of anger unsure if I’ll ever grieve your passing. Even after nine years I’m still feeling like a calloused monster who never learned how to miss his mother when the Cancer finally consumed what little was left.

And I hate that.

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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