4-1-20 This is why I write

This is why I write: to forget about the world out there and all the ways I don’t relate. To sink into my discomfort and unpack the last birthday party, the last intake of medicine, the last smile, the last time in the living room, the last view of the house, the last smell of the flower, the last time picking out an outfit, the last time saying my name, the last touch, the last smile, the last breath.

This is why I write: to remember there is a world out there that understands, that resonates, that can hear my story and relate, empathize, warrant the pain. To sink into my comfort that someone else has also witnessed or understands what comes when you have seen the last birthday party, the last intake of medicine, the last smile, the last time in the living room, the last view of the house, the last smell of the flower, the last time picking out an outfit, the last time saying my name, the last touch, the last smile, the last breath.

This is why I write: to hear my own voice, see my words on the page and find strength.

This is why I write: to connect with other narratives and to find healing from my own.

This is why I write: in hopes that one day, I will be able to write about something else. That my own story won’t continue to swallow me. That it will stop taking over every moment I put pen to paper.

This is why I write: so that one day I might find when given a writing prompt something else will come. I write to remember, I write to forget, I write to be whole, I write to be empty, I write to move on, I write to remain.

I write to remember playing hide and seek, and baseball, and English class even in the summer, and tracing a potato masher to make a snake. I write to remember outer space sandwiches, and flashlight tag on the ceiling.

This is why I write: I write so that I don’t have just the last moments flashing in my head. Just a solid ten moments stuck on replay. I write to remember the years before that. To see her smile again. To hear her voice when it was strong. To see her walk down the hallway. I want to remember the feeling of her arms around me, her whisper in my ear when she said, “I love you,” her kiss on my cheek. I want to remember the conversations we had about food, holidays, family but also about birds and flowers and brushing her hair. I want to hear her sing again. I want to see that look of awe which came so easily. Her pursed lips when she focused on things. Her spiral doodles in pencil along with notes as she talked on the phone.

I write to remember a time when the meds were just maintenance, heck I would even go back to when they were wishful thinking of a cure, I don’t want to only remember when they were keeping her alive or even when I surrendered to them not being taken at all.

This is why I write: I write to remember a time when she picked out her own clothes and washed her own body. I write to remember a time when she walked down the hallway, I don’t want to go back to her using the walker and certainly not to me pushing her in the wheelchair.

I write to remember a time when she remembered I loved her.

I write to remember a time when she remembered she loved me.

I write to remember a time of sharing candy bars and board games and road trips.

I write to remember a time of gardening and making pizza and canning peaches.

I write to remember a time before her last birthday when I dressed her in purple, fed her chocolate cake, and held her hand as we sang, “You are my sunshine.” It was the last time she looked at me, touched her hand to my face, and whispered, “always remember this.”

I write to remember the magic of having my mom.