Missing Loves That Have Crossed Over: A Piece On My Continuing Grief.

I feel so weird, and yet grounded, today; like grounded in a way that means my terrestrial body won't fly away and get lost.  I feel grounded like the foundation of a building helps it stand tall through all sorts of challenges. I feel grounded like I belong to a part of the world; like I could get lost in the property behind my apartment and just meld in with the trees and squirrels and birds and bugs and spiders and dirt and leaves and rain and green, red, yellow, brown, and orange.

I hear that this time of year, the veil is thinnest and i had dreamt about trying to get away from large crowds of poeple who descended on my home where I was comfortably living out my life with my chosen family. I kept trying to hide from them. They kept multiplying until I couldn't find anyone I knew. I felt overwhelmed, unable to be alone, and irritated. I kept looking for our matriarch, but couldn't find her.

When I woke up, I felt sad. I felt achy. I miss my mother. I miss her being her so she could tell me that my child is just like me. I miss her seeing the strides my child makes as she grows and develops into an amazing human being. I miss her being here so I could tell her, "I AM a good parent." and show her, too, because she didn't believe that I could be a good parent. That knowledge still hurts. and like Megan Devine said,

"Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried."

And now, when the veil is thinnest (why IS that? How do we KNOW that?) WHY CAN'T I FIND HER TO TELL HER ALL THE THINGS?

And why do I want to show her I'm a good parent? She can't take back the thing she said 15 years ago. I can't unfeel the hurt. Even now it stabs at me at odd times. I can only carry it and I wish I could put it down.

Innocuous Actions

The other day, you set up my coffee for me. It was the first time in a long time. You didn't realize that I had updated the auto-start by an hour, in the hopes that I would actually get out of bed that early. You commented on it, "Do you really want this set for 6:00 a.m.?"

I replied in the affirmative, and the next morning I reveled in the miracle that is coffee, brewed with love. The sound of the machine starting up; click, click, tsssss, drip, drip, dribble. A few minutes later, the scent of the 7 different flavors of coffee drifting into my room. I mix and grind it like you taught me; it's a delightful concoction of all the things I like best about coffee. And when I finally got out of bed, and poured my cup with cream and sugar, I felt loved and achy all at the same time.

The ache was in my heart, recalling a time when you refused to let a day pass without making my coffee. If you visited for lunch, you made it. If you came over in the evening, you made it. Sometimes, you would drop by just to make it for me. We had sweet rituals around it.

After a while, those rituals soured and we flexed and shifted. We removed the rituals, and the habit faded.

I miss it. Did you feel taken for granted? Was it too much pressure to perform? I want to ask you what happened, but it's just coffee. Why get twisted about it? Why? I applied meaning to your action. Making coffee =  making love. When you tapered off, I noticed. I did not remark, because life things were swirling all around and you say "I love you" in so many other ways.

It's never been just coffee to me, though. And, as I said, I miss this particular way that you have shown your love. I don't know how to bring it up, so I took the coward's way out and wrote it here.