I always had this fear that one day I would be going to the park alone to remember my Mom. I thought maybe one year it would come, and my Dad wouldn’t remember. He wouldn’t ask what time we should go. If I’ll bring the flowers. Maybe one year he just couldn’t spend another day with me crying on the walkway throwing fistfuls of rose petals into the water, and drowning in utter disbelief that another year had passed since she had been gone. Or another birthday had gone by. Another Mothers’ Day. Where did the line get drawn? I always wondered. Would we go for the rest of his life? Would we forget? Would I forget? What if I can’t picture her face in my mind one year? I can’t remember how her voice sounded? Her laugh? Any stories? Then that day came, and I wasn’t prepared for it. I wasn’t prepared for it to only be years 3 and 4 that he wouldn’t be able to come with me. I skipped last year entirely because I was taking care of him, and still working full-time, and still expected to mainly function as an adult human being with shit to take care of always. I know Mom understood about last year. I was where I was supposed to be. My Dad wasn’t. He wasn’t anywhere near where he was supposed to be.
I didn’t think I would lose both of my parents within 4 years and 1 month of each other. I thought my Dad was going to be beside me for a lot longer. I didn’t imagine myself standing out on low tide sand, hoping I didn’t lose a shoe, tossing rose petals I saved from my Dad’s funeral less than a year ago. I put on my “Mom” playlist and instantly started crying as “Wish You Were Here” by Incubus started playing. It reminded me of that concert I went to with my cousin, Amanda, and how we heard “Hear You Me” by Jimmy Eat World even though she searched the playlists and saw it wasn’t on any of them because that’s the song we associate with Gram. How Incubus played this song and turned it into Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” which was our Uncle Corey’s song. All of this happened the day before I got my cardinal tattoo to represent my Mom, Gram, Uncle Corey, Aunt Robin, and Aunt Randi. I remember putting flower petals in the water for all of them with my Mom, until it was her turn.
I am always worried people get tired of hearing about my loss and grief. That one day someone is going to look at me, or another freaking blog post, or update and just say “oh my godddd we get it pls stfu already”. I don’t know if this is a common thing with everyone, grief in general, or just me. I am constantly worried people around me think I am too heavy, my issues are too heavy, this pain is too heavy, this grief is too heavy. Maybe that’s why I say something super dark and add on a “lol” or a laugh or a big smile. I say “I’m fine” when clearly I am not. I say “I am hanging in there” when I feel like I am one step from slipping off the edge and falling and burning every bridge I have on the way down. I guess if you’re reading this you aren’t sick of it yet, or maybe you are and you feel compelled to read it because you’ve made it this far.
No one ever prepares you for the day you say goodbye to a parent. No one ever prepares you for writing eulogies. No one ever prepares you for the day you are standing alone at a special place saying goodbye to one parent and the empty void where another should be. I was walking back and was floored by another song on my playlist. “Stone” by Allman Brown. One line is usually all it takes to break me, and for the 14th it was “and now that you’re gone I’m the ghost” because holyyyy shit does that feel like what I have been dealing with since my first loss at 16 with Gram that was an earth-shattering altering shift of my life. And with each loss I became a more transparent version of myself. I became the ghost. No one prepares you for that either.