Now What?
It has been difficult to write after passing the one calendar year since you left this world, Elira. It has been difficult to chart and face this next year. I haven’t even figured out how I have walked this planet without you for 372 days. How have I moved my legs? How have I opened and closed my eyes at night not knowing exactly where you are? You know, for the first few weeks after you left, I would ask your father to go out and look for you. It was dark and you weren’t home. What kind of mother goes to sleep not knowing where her daughter is? Your death has done this to me. Your absence has moved me in ways I didn’t know were possible. How have I eaten when you haven’t? How have I used my hands when they no longer touch your face? My being is that connected to yours. I feel like I am now just a half. I didn’t know there were half human beings walking this earth but I have met many who do, so many parents in my support groups, wondering around trying to make sense of a world without their children.
I had a dream about you last night. It wasn’t pleasant but I had a few moments of love in there. We held each-other tightly like we used to when you were here with me and you loved me in those moments like no one else on this earth loves me. I woke up crying but hopeful that the embrace will sustain me in the next few weeks. I felt like I cared for you for a few minutes and I deeply felt your presence. That’s what I miss the most. I miss serving you, loving you, I miss being your ma.
As I sit here thinking what’s next, I wonder how I will continue to live without you. I contemplate how I will breathe, and eat, and write, and walk without you. I have done it this far, now I just have to repeat it, one day at a time, one week at a time. I still can’t think of months or years. It sounds scary. Time doesn’t heal. It’s only a cruel arrow that pierces through my fogginess to remind me you are not here, you are not coming home. And when things get tough, I have to remember, we are all travelers in this transitory world. We are all passing through, preparing for our next journey. I read an article on NPR today talking about death as the universal experience. My love, I just have to figure out how to journey without you in this world.
The other day I imagined my life going “according to order,” as if there is such thing. I imagined dying before you, and you being really sad, comforting your sister. I imagined you grieving for me but continuing on with your beautiful life. I imagined you with grey hair and few wrinkles, still beautiful. I imagined you being a mother and a grandmother. I imagined you getting to the end of your life as an old lady. I imagined our reunification in spirit, and the joy I know I will experience one day when I hold you again. The end is the same, the only difference is I am experiencing the pain of losing you instead of you losing me. That’s what’s out of order. Mothers are not supposed to lose daughters, beautiful 13 year old daughters. There is no manual of living without your heart and your soul, there is no single one path. It’s an uncertain path of discovery, each day, each week, and some days even each hour and each minute.
Today, I write here, I sip my coffee, I breathe. I plant seeds for tomorrow but tomorrow seems too far to face without you. I don’t worry about tomorrow. I just sit here today and I breathe. That’s what I have to do to live without you, my love.
