Empty Moments
I gave myself a nasty fright this morning, as I was drifting in and out of sleep. I got it into my head that I'm almost 30, and I could be half done. Not the first time I've had that thought by a long shot, but sometimes when I'm sleeping it sneaks up on me and instead of whispering in my ear like it usually does, it finds a soft spot and it bites down hard.
I don't believe I'm half over, not really, but it did wake me up with a nasty kick in my gut.
Two years ago, when my mom was still fighting cancer, when my grandmother was dying of Alzheimer's, I wrote:
"We truly are unique creatures. And once we're gone, that's it. Nothing but the space of us left, like the empty silhouette of a sugar star lifted from the cookie dough. Defined only by an absence in the memory of those who knew us. No cat can replace another cat, no person another person. That the world goes on is a comfort, but it is a comfort we take like we take our revenge: cold."
And that's true. Because now, even more than when I wrote that entry, I feel the empty spaces. There's more of them. Nanny is gone. Mom, too. And Kaw Kaw. And now, little losses. A snake here and there as our pets get old. Cyrus. The Metro. Some mornings it feels like I'm all hole and no dough.
When I came home on Thanksgiving after being gone for hours and hours, I drew a breath to call out to the dog, to tell him we were home. Thank the gods I caught it in time, because I think it might have killed Sargon. But it was still like walking into a wall.
It was a fruit punch moment, a really nasty one.
Last year I was painting a lovely box for a friend and I was very, very proud of it. Mom had just died, and I was still getting used to it, sometimes even forgetting, and one day while I was taking a break and watching Sinbad fight a giant bee, I put my hand on the box. I do a lot of that while I'm in the middle of a project, just touching with love. I love my work and I take it very personally, and even if I don't know the person I'm painting for, while I'm painting, I sort of love them, too. I was really proud of this one. I thought under my mental breath, "I can't wait to show this to Mom."
The remembering hit me like a kick in the gut. It hurt so fucking bad, so bad, that I almost shriveled up and died of it right there.
I don't have moments like that anymore. It was worse when I would forget for a little while, like I'm still forgetting about the dog. Still looking for him. It was worse when I still expected Mom to be there, even after a year and more of being prepared for her to not be.
I stopped looking for Mom sometime in May or June. But I miss her today, which sucks. The last time I really was able to sit with her and talk, it was near this time of year. Whatever ill will was in my family, I always felt less of it around the holidays. I remember these as happy times. Mom often made things for family and friends, like I tend to, so we'd discuss projects. We'd catch up on news from friends and family. We'd just talk sometimes. Mom had a lot of hopes for me. She believed in me I think more than she let on. We just weren't friends, so she didn't know how to say it.
Even though I'm not the sort of person who usually feels that I have to live up to anyone else's expectations, I'm glad I don't feel like I'm letting her down. I think she'd be proud of me. This last year has sucked in many ways, but I am doing better now than I have in a very long time. I have a lot of hope. A lot of fear, too, and worry, but a lot of hope. I'm excited about next year. And I can't share that with her.
It sucks wide.
Sargon's folks are wonderful and supportive. My dad is every bit as awesome as you'd expect my dad would have to be. I love my sister, with whom I share so much, and with whom I want to try sharing more. But Mom . . . even if we never got along, we were alike in more ways than I feel comfortable admitting. We understood each other, and she cared about me in a way that nobody else did, or even can. All you mothers out there will know exactly what I'm talking about.
I have to say this to all you chicks with kids. There will come a day when you realize with horror that your child doesn't really need you in order to live their life. This may come at 18, or 25, or 30, but it will come. Your kid is probably pleased by this realization, as pleased as you are horrified. That's okay. They need to feel that. It feels good.
What they can't say, or don't think to, or don't know yet, is that though there comes a point where you don't need your parents, you always want them. And in that sense, they are something that you need. Always. We, your kids, we don't want to be without the time we'll have with you once we don't need you and can learn to love you as equals. Maybe as friends. We just don't know how to say it, or that we have to, until that's threatened or gone.
The truth is that you do your job, your kid loves you and learns something from you along the way, so you're always going to be with that kid. Always. And the bare fact that it can't be taken away means that they will always need you. You're integral to who they are.
I don't know. I'm feeling philosophical, and it's mostly bullshit rambling, but what I'm saying is that even if we can learn to get along, adjust to how our lives change, there are always going to be these . . . moments.
I like to think that I'm living the life my mom would have wanted for me. I also sort of like to think that I'm living the sort of life she would have chosen for herself, if she could have done so. I don't want her approval, exactly. I just want her to feel like no matter how badly she felt she fucked up, look, see, I'm not broken, and I still work just fine.
This doesn't hurt. Not exactly. Don't want you to think it does. It's just weighty. Even a year later, I want her sometimes, and . . . well . . . she's not there. I really do believe that froufrou bullshit about your loved ones never leaving you, but I will tell you that without a physical person to interact with it's not the same, and no amount of wishing will make it okay when someone you love has died.
Not having a thing will teach you to the inch how much of it you need. I'll say that, too.
We were never going to be friends. She wasn't that sort. But we might have been something else, and now I'll never know.
I don't believe I'm half over, not really, but it did wake me up with a nasty kick in my gut.
Two years ago, when my mom was still fighting cancer, when my grandmother was dying of Alzheimer's, I wrote:
"We truly are unique creatures. And once we're gone, that's it. Nothing but the space of us left, like the empty silhouette of a sugar star lifted from the cookie dough. Defined only by an absence in the memory of those who knew us. No cat can replace another cat, no person another person. That the world goes on is a comfort, but it is a comfort we take like we take our revenge: cold."
And that's true. Because now, even more than when I wrote that entry, I feel the empty spaces. There's more of them. Nanny is gone. Mom, too. And Kaw Kaw. And now, little losses. A snake here and there as our pets get old. Cyrus. The Metro. Some mornings it feels like I'm all hole and no dough.
When I came home on Thanksgiving after being gone for hours and hours, I drew a breath to call out to the dog, to tell him we were home. Thank the gods I caught it in time, because I think it might have killed Sargon. But it was still like walking into a wall.
It was a fruit punch moment, a really nasty one.
Last year I was painting a lovely box for a friend and I was very, very proud of it. Mom had just died, and I was still getting used to it, sometimes even forgetting, and one day while I was taking a break and watching Sinbad fight a giant bee, I put my hand on the box. I do a lot of that while I'm in the middle of a project, just touching with love. I love my work and I take it very personally, and even if I don't know the person I'm painting for, while I'm painting, I sort of love them, too. I was really proud of this one. I thought under my mental breath, "I can't wait to show this to Mom."
The remembering hit me like a kick in the gut. It hurt so fucking bad, so bad, that I almost shriveled up and died of it right there.
I don't have moments like that anymore. It was worse when I would forget for a little while, like I'm still forgetting about the dog. Still looking for him. It was worse when I still expected Mom to be there, even after a year and more of being prepared for her to not be.
I stopped looking for Mom sometime in May or June. But I miss her today, which sucks. The last time I really was able to sit with her and talk, it was near this time of year. Whatever ill will was in my family, I always felt less of it around the holidays. I remember these as happy times. Mom often made things for family and friends, like I tend to, so we'd discuss projects. We'd catch up on news from friends and family. We'd just talk sometimes. Mom had a lot of hopes for me. She believed in me I think more than she let on. We just weren't friends, so she didn't know how to say it.
Even though I'm not the sort of person who usually feels that I have to live up to anyone else's expectations, I'm glad I don't feel like I'm letting her down. I think she'd be proud of me. This last year has sucked in many ways, but I am doing better now than I have in a very long time. I have a lot of hope. A lot of fear, too, and worry, but a lot of hope. I'm excited about next year. And I can't share that with her.
It sucks wide.
Sargon's folks are wonderful and supportive. My dad is every bit as awesome as you'd expect my dad would have to be. I love my sister, with whom I share so much, and with whom I want to try sharing more. But Mom . . . even if we never got along, we were alike in more ways than I feel comfortable admitting. We understood each other, and she cared about me in a way that nobody else did, or even can. All you mothers out there will know exactly what I'm talking about.
I have to say this to all you chicks with kids. There will come a day when you realize with horror that your child doesn't really need you in order to live their life. This may come at 18, or 25, or 30, but it will come. Your kid is probably pleased by this realization, as pleased as you are horrified. That's okay. They need to feel that. It feels good.
What they can't say, or don't think to, or don't know yet, is that though there comes a point where you don't need your parents, you always want them. And in that sense, they are something that you need. Always. We, your kids, we don't want to be without the time we'll have with you once we don't need you and can learn to love you as equals. Maybe as friends. We just don't know how to say it, or that we have to, until that's threatened or gone.
The truth is that you do your job, your kid loves you and learns something from you along the way, so you're always going to be with that kid. Always. And the bare fact that it can't be taken away means that they will always need you. You're integral to who they are.
I don't know. I'm feeling philosophical, and it's mostly bullshit rambling, but what I'm saying is that even if we can learn to get along, adjust to how our lives change, there are always going to be these . . . moments.
I like to think that I'm living the life my mom would have wanted for me. I also sort of like to think that I'm living the sort of life she would have chosen for herself, if she could have done so. I don't want her approval, exactly. I just want her to feel like no matter how badly she felt she fucked up, look, see, I'm not broken, and I still work just fine.
This doesn't hurt. Not exactly. Don't want you to think it does. It's just weighty. Even a year later, I want her sometimes, and . . . well . . . she's not there. I really do believe that froufrou bullshit about your loved ones never leaving you, but I will tell you that without a physical person to interact with it's not the same, and no amount of wishing will make it okay when someone you love has died.
Not having a thing will teach you to the inch how much of it you need. I'll say that, too.
We were never going to be friends. She wasn't that sort. But we might have been something else, and now I'll never know.