writers_muses 63.6 - Soul Searching
Saturday evening...
The wind was cold and bitter, and little pellets of ice fell viciously from the sky. That didn't stop John from going out into the harsh elements of the city weather. He was in Des Moines for only a short time, and for a very specific reason. A little frozen rain, as much as he disliked it, wasn't going to stop him.
He weaved his way through the headstones, finally finding the one he came all this way to see.
Katherine Baker
1968-2008
Wonderful Wife. Wonderful Woman.
He wasn't surprised to see Wonderful Mother wasn't included. She was a wonderful mother, but her son wasn't nearly as wonderful. Kevin the Jackass Stepdad wouldn't want any indication of John whatsoever, and perhaps it was better that way. He found he wasn't angered by it, but sad.
This whole thing was making him sad. He wasn't used to it; at least, he wasn't used to dealing with it in any sort of normal capacity. But, it was just something he had to deal with.
John had run away from her when he was thirteen years old. In all those teen years, he'd tried so hard to forget about her. She'd been there, right around the edges of his consciousness, but it was too painful and he dealt with that like he did everything else-- not at all.
Not until stupid Kevin decided to start stalking him, then told John about his mother's illness. He was told when there was such little time left- Kevin, that dick, totally did it on purpose. And John knew, John knew he had to see his mother and try to say all the things he should have been saying all along.
Their talk was brief, and he didn't get to say those things. She said what she needed to say, though, and that was the important part. And then, so suddenly but not unexpected, she was gone. Gone forever gone.
And John still had things he needed to say.
But as he looked down at her, at all that was remaining- stone and words that didn't include him- he had trouble thinking about what he needed to say. He stared down at the words for a long time, before his own finally came to him.
Um. Hi, Mom. This is... I don't know. This is probably fucking stupid, huh? You're gone, long gone, anything I say is just for my own fucking benefit, right? This is stupid, but. I thought I should. So, here I am....
I've been dreaming about you a lot lately. You come and visit me in my dreams. Maybe you already know that. You're always nice to me. Kind. Motherly. The way you've always been. But you shouldn't be. Not after everything I did. After I hurt you. Hurt others. I don't understand why you aren't mad at me.
I'm mad at me. It makes me mad that you aren't. And that's just fucking dumb because you're dead. And you're my Mom.
I'm happy now, Mom. Really happy. I wish you could've met my boys. Doug is the sweetest man in the entire world, and he pretty much owns my soul. And Jean-Paul-- he's my best friend. I'm crazy stupid in love with them both and I wish you could see how happy that makes me. I wish I could know if it made you happy. If you approved. I think you would, but maybe I'm wrong. I'll never know.
I think you'd be proud of me too. Well, you told me the day you died you were proud of me, proud of who I could be. I'm getting there. I mean, it's really hard work and most days I think I'm just going to fail anyway so I should just give up. It'd be easier that way, less stressful. But I don't actually want to and I think about how I could make you proud, if you were still here, and it helps. It helps keep me going. Though, some days, Mom, I think... Well. I think I'd rather give up. I'm just too tired. But the way I want to get past it? How much I want to do good and move on? Make you, and Doug, and Jean-Paul, and my friends, proud? That makes me go on. You're always in my thoughts, so. Thanks. And I'm. I'm really.
I'm.
I'm sorry.
GOD I am sorry. I can't even begin to tell you how much, and for how much, and for fucking everything that... You're the beginning, though. You deserve my apologies the most. I never got to make it up to you, not really. So, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking tired, Mom. I remember sitting in that hospital room thinking, 'I can't say sorry. It's compromising.' I was different then but you were the beginning of that change too. I'm sorry I never said sorry when you were alive. I should have. Now, even with this? I'll never stop thinking it. Ever.
I know I shouldn't have waited ten months... almost eleven, to come, but I had some stuff going on and things were.... well. That's not really an excuse, I guess. I don't have one. I never made it here. And then last week, I was thinking. And then I thought.
I'm really sorry.
Goodbye.
I'll come again.
After, John made his way back to the hotel room. His were wet and frozen solid practically, stiff and unyielding against his skin. Then they started to drip after they thawed a bit, making him feel wet and damp and uncomfortable. When he got back to the room, he stripped out of his clothes completely, and had a warm shower.
He crawled into the bed, burried himself under the covers. He still didn't feel warm, no matter what he did. He shivered and was chilled. He coughed and sneezed and he cursed the goddamn weather of this day.
But he knew that wasn't what was making him feel bad. Going to see his mother's grave made him feel cold and empty. It was as if the words he said drifted off into the wind and faded away, meaningless. Doing it, and saying them, didn't make him feel better. Not in the slightest. It made him feel worse, and not just because he was catching a cold from being outside in the sleet for longer then he should have.
So he prompted himself to sleep, and maybe he and his mother could have a real conversation there. For once, the thought of it comforted him. It was much better then talking to a gravestone that didn't even acknowledge his presence in her life.
For once, his dreams made him sleep better.
But in the morning, even with the restful sleep, he woke with a stuffed up head and a burning throat. The foreign room felt large and cold and empty.
He wanted to go home.
The wind was cold and bitter, and little pellets of ice fell viciously from the sky. That didn't stop John from going out into the harsh elements of the city weather. He was in Des Moines for only a short time, and for a very specific reason. A little frozen rain, as much as he disliked it, wasn't going to stop him.
He weaved his way through the headstones, finally finding the one he came all this way to see.
Katherine Baker
1968-2008
Wonderful Wife. Wonderful Woman.
He wasn't surprised to see Wonderful Mother wasn't included. She was a wonderful mother, but her son wasn't nearly as wonderful. Kevin the Jackass Stepdad wouldn't want any indication of John whatsoever, and perhaps it was better that way. He found he wasn't angered by it, but sad.
This whole thing was making him sad. He wasn't used to it; at least, he wasn't used to dealing with it in any sort of normal capacity. But, it was just something he had to deal with.
John had run away from her when he was thirteen years old. In all those teen years, he'd tried so hard to forget about her. She'd been there, right around the edges of his consciousness, but it was too painful and he dealt with that like he did everything else-- not at all.
Not until stupid Kevin decided to start stalking him, then told John about his mother's illness. He was told when there was such little time left- Kevin, that dick, totally did it on purpose. And John knew, John knew he had to see his mother and try to say all the things he should have been saying all along.
Their talk was brief, and he didn't get to say those things. She said what she needed to say, though, and that was the important part. And then, so suddenly but not unexpected, she was gone. Gone forever gone.
And John still had things he needed to say.
But as he looked down at her, at all that was remaining- stone and words that didn't include him- he had trouble thinking about what he needed to say. He stared down at the words for a long time, before his own finally came to him.
Um. Hi, Mom. This is... I don't know. This is probably fucking stupid, huh? You're gone, long gone, anything I say is just for my own fucking benefit, right? This is stupid, but. I thought I should. So, here I am....
I've been dreaming about you a lot lately. You come and visit me in my dreams. Maybe you already know that. You're always nice to me. Kind. Motherly. The way you've always been. But you shouldn't be. Not after everything I did. After I hurt you. Hurt others. I don't understand why you aren't mad at me.
I'm mad at me. It makes me mad that you aren't. And that's just fucking dumb because you're dead. And you're my Mom.
I'm happy now, Mom. Really happy. I wish you could've met my boys. Doug is the sweetest man in the entire world, and he pretty much owns my soul. And Jean-Paul-- he's my best friend. I'm crazy stupid in love with them both and I wish you could see how happy that makes me. I wish I could know if it made you happy. If you approved. I think you would, but maybe I'm wrong. I'll never know.
I think you'd be proud of me too. Well, you told me the day you died you were proud of me, proud of who I could be. I'm getting there. I mean, it's really hard work and most days I think I'm just going to fail anyway so I should just give up. It'd be easier that way, less stressful. But I don't actually want to and I think about how I could make you proud, if you were still here, and it helps. It helps keep me going. Though, some days, Mom, I think... Well. I think I'd rather give up. I'm just too tired. But the way I want to get past it? How much I want to do good and move on? Make you, and Doug, and Jean-Paul, and my friends, proud? That makes me go on. You're always in my thoughts, so. Thanks. And I'm. I'm really.
I'm.
I'm sorry.
GOD I am sorry. I can't even begin to tell you how much, and for how much, and for fucking everything that... You're the beginning, though. You deserve my apologies the most. I never got to make it up to you, not really. So, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking tired, Mom. I remember sitting in that hospital room thinking, 'I can't say sorry. It's compromising.' I was different then but you were the beginning of that change too. I'm sorry I never said sorry when you were alive. I should have. Now, even with this? I'll never stop thinking it. Ever.
I know I shouldn't have waited ten months... almost eleven, to come, but I had some stuff going on and things were.... well. That's not really an excuse, I guess. I don't have one. I never made it here. And then last week, I was thinking. And then I thought.
I'm really sorry.
Goodbye.
I'll come again.
After, John made his way back to the hotel room. His were wet and frozen solid practically, stiff and unyielding against his skin. Then they started to drip after they thawed a bit, making him feel wet and damp and uncomfortable. When he got back to the room, he stripped out of his clothes completely, and had a warm shower.
He crawled into the bed, burried himself under the covers. He still didn't feel warm, no matter what he did. He shivered and was chilled. He coughed and sneezed and he cursed the goddamn weather of this day.
But he knew that wasn't what was making him feel bad. Going to see his mother's grave made him feel cold and empty. It was as if the words he said drifted off into the wind and faded away, meaningless. Doing it, and saying them, didn't make him feel better. Not in the slightest. It made him feel worse, and not just because he was catching a cold from being outside in the sleet for longer then he should have.
So he prompted himself to sleep, and maybe he and his mother could have a real conversation there. For once, the thought of it comforted him. It was much better then talking to a gravestone that didn't even acknowledge his presence in her life.
For once, his dreams made him sleep better.
But in the morning, even with the restful sleep, he woke with a stuffed up head and a burning throat. The foreign room felt large and cold and empty.
He wanted to go home.