I lost my mother early that morning. I could feel the air moving in my lungs, but it didn’t feel like breathing. I still catch myself gasping at random intervals. Not a full-on cry. Just a short, shallow sob. I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly is the worst part in all of this. So far, the hollowness is winning. There is a tangible part of me missing. An emptiness that silently carved itself during all the loud and heavy grief. I feel it. It vibrates within in me like echoes in a bat-riddled cave every time I see something that reminds me of her, smell something that reminds me of her, every time I think about her. I could never find the words to describe what happened, to elaborate on how I feel. And I looked. I reached deep. I wanted to find comfort in them. To put them in an order that made sense. That made this hollowness, this ache something more than this pain that plagues me. But one day I realized it wasn’t the words I was looking for. It was my mom. She knew what to tell me on my darkest days. Even if I didn’t want to hear them. She gave me hugs. Long drives full of stories. She gave me hope when I didn’t want to believe any more. All along, I just wanted to hear her voice say that everything is going to be okay. It’s been almost two months now. My new normal is setting in. Somedays I believe in my laughs, others I don’t. I’m relearning to trust my happiness, even though the hollow still rings deep. I still haven’t found my own way to voice this, but I hear hers clear as day. “All you have to do is try, Ale’. Just do your best. You do have to be perfect, just do your best.”
Well, I’m trying, mama. I’m really trying.
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