I am my mother’s daughter, always waiting for someone to come and take care of me.
Dragging corpses out of closets to lay in their arms one last time so we can watch our memories back like old movies – like my mother with my father.
I say,
Do you remember when? and when? and when?
You say,
Yes, and yes, and yes.
She says,
Do you remember when? and when? and when?
He doesn’t answer.
This is “A Rose for Emily” all over again, maybe Faulkner was on to something - forever setting a standard for ninth grade girls completing their reading assignments. Lucky for you, that whole part about dead bodies was just a metaphor. But maybe, some people just weren’t made to let go of those we love, maybe we should never have to.
It was getting a little dark there, wasn’t it?
What I meant to say is, I am my mother’s daughter in the sense that I’m the only one sitting in her hospital room every day, and the staff knows me by name. Just in case they forget, it’s written on the board - Tarah (DAUGHTER) next to my phone number, for emergency purposes.
They say,
“Visiting hours are over”
And I say,
Thank God.
Let that guilt sink in.
I tried to avoid visiting my father in the hospital. Compartmentalizing and prioritizing. Skating my way through the tragedy and looking the other way when things got too difficult. Pretending it wasn’t happening and refusing to process, I put that part of my life into a closet and continued on as normal. Unable to bare the sight, my eyes focused on something shinier.
Is it sinking yet?
The issue with putting problems in closets is that they never actually go away. There is no solving secrets. Years later, when you finally have the courage to venture back in and open the doors, all you’ll find are corpses.
You see, living things can’t subsist in tiny boxes and little jars.
Even the most unloved of creatures, even they need air holes and sunlight.
Even I need air holes and sunlight.
And just in case you were wondering if I would continue on to turn an “I” into a “me” and an “us” into a “we” …the answer is yes, we can’t survive in darkness either.
Just look at Emily and her whole debacle.
I am my mother’s daughter as I continually ask why everything around me dies, knowing the answer won’t help bring anything back to life.
Yet here the two of us sit, begging for oxygen instead of opening our own lungs.
Don’t get too concerned here – everything is totally fine! Ask me in a few weeks and I’ll have popped all of this into a closet, dusting my hands clean. Out of sight, out of mind. I can already picture it. What’s that Billy Joel song? “Moving on”, “Moving out” something like that? Yeah, I don’t know any of the other lyrics, but that seems like a good one to mention when you just can’t handle something anymore.
Because in case you forgot - I am a master at packing; I am a master of pretending to forget.
You’ll say,
Do you remember when? and when? and when?
And I’ll smile and shake my head while shoving my corpses back into closets
and pretend that I don’t.
Enhance your reading experience with today’s Blog pairing menu:
Catchy tune: Francesca by Hozier