1 month

That night, before she died, I would, sometimes, put my head in her lap. On her thigh. And I would press the hand I held against my face. She didn't respond to these gestures. It was too late at that point--too much morphine, too much pain, too much too much. But her body was warm and she was my mother and it was more for me than for her. I knew these would be the last times I could put my head in her lap and feel like she, my mother, might protect me.

Today was hard. The last few weeks have been relatively okay, for whatever reason. But this morning and all through the day was incredibly not okay. Tears tears tears. Wanting to pick up the phone and call her. I miss her.

I was remembering how I asked her, once, whether I could be a Brownie Scout. I was in the third grade. What I remember most was her reply. She argued that she didn't have the time. "I'm not that kind of mother," she said. "Don't expect me to be that kind of mother." And, really, she wasn't that kind of mother. Not to me, anyway. And I learned to live with it--and she became proud of a daughter who found friends on her own and developed creativity in her own weird and badgeless ways. And then we grew close.

I think my mom never really knew how to relate to me or talk to me until I could speak to her as an adult. Still, it's funny to me that I have all of these photos and brief memories that suggest something entirely different--different than the broad narrative I have in my head of how our relationship played out. But so it is. And I'm glad for the mystery and the contradiction. I'm glad because it was never simple. My mom and I. And it gives me more to hold onto--to understand--to struggle to remember--to make sense of and yet never really know for certain.

It makes it feel like she's a living and moving memory rather than a still and soundless one.

But fucking still and soundless still.