Suspended in glass
My mom died four years ago, tomorrow. College is four years. High school. A lifetime. Enough to become a completely new person. Would she recognize me now? When we last met I was living a suburban, hetero normative analog, a few months into my first job in an actual design studio. It was a life she could finally swallow, but took me years to figure out was never me. It was my best effort to imitate my parents and what I thought I was supposed to do.
From her death sprang a closeness with my sister and stepfather, the latter of I'd said barely a handful of words to in as long as I could remember. I became aware of my own mortality, and realized the relative length of every relationship I will ever have with another human being is a blink or two. The time without her grew upright in my spine and gave me a freedom I am guilty for. How did I get from there to here? Was it because of what she gave me- or because of what she took with her?
I look at pictures of her now and see myself. When I was born she was the same age I am now. Here she is, 28 years ago in the Japanese Tea Gardens, a brief stroll from the house of a girl I am dating. Just two days ago I carried a heart past this place to my apartment, a strange offering to the painted lady. I never felt like Ohio was home, this has always been it for me. What does a carrier pigeon do after 30 years, when the message is finally delivered?