I wear my grief like an ill-fitting coat

so much going on lately

The boys grow up at rapid speed. My neck hurts from the snapping. During all of these beautiful milestones like moving away from home, college, birthdays, I just want to crawl into a ball and cry. My dad is good and tries, but he is not my mom. My mom was epic with traditions and big life moments, as if she had a degree in human connection. She made everything feel wildly special and earnest. I barely crawl through these days of weird.

Photo by Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash

I send my friend a card. She lost her mom recently. I give her lovely words to soothe and comfort her soul, but the truth is that is all they do, just comfort for a moment. The pain of loss sticks with ya, sticks ya in your ribs, sticks you in your pincushion heart. I want to actually tell her, you’re fucked. Things are never the same. But I don’t. I just try to comfort her.

I am not the same. I want to call my mom up on the astral plane telephone and say, what the hell lady, do you even know that you have complex and beautiful grandsons who are artists and creative wild things and they walk through the world without you. I want to tell her about their highs and lows and the people they love and how gorgeous they look. All of their glorious mistakes and beautiful changes.

When I was heavier, I had a bad habit of pulling at my shirt or clothing, an act of self-consciousness. I guessed if my shirt didn’t touch my fat, I looked thinner. Ludicrous. But also, just a habit, like sucking in my stomach. I don’t do this as much anymore but I have this strange feeling that my grief is like this lately. It stretches over my body like cling wrap and doesn’t fit well. I tug and stretch and feel constricted. Am I about to shed some of it. Have I regressed. Is this a pattern.

Someone at a party all drunk recently told me some shit about all of our cells regenerating every 7–10 years or something and that we were basically a whole new person. I ate celery and watched his lips move. Bullshit. We are still this person. Sure, some cells turn over and some atoms and bone tissue change, but bullshit. The girl listening beside me thought it was romantic. I kicked her shoe. The lens of your eye is the same one you were born with, I told her. The way we watch the world pass. The same lens we were born with. The same one I first looked at my mother’s face with. Boom, I was born and opened my eyes. The girl looked sad for a moment and then swigged her beer bottle. The annoying drunk turned to someone else and tried to be cool. I tugged at my dress. The persistence of attachment sucks. I wish the drunk were right. I wish I was a whole new person sometimes, someone more prepared for this walk through life.

ilysm

xo

Amy