HOW TO SAY GOODBYE

I sold everything.

Everything I could. It didn’t matter how old the antique it was, or how much sentimental meaning it held, I got rid of all of it. I left those pieces with each memory it held of her, what items possessed her energy. Neither good nor bad, simply her. Items worth $20,000, if even, it didn’t matter to me. It would have for her. They were her belongings after all, but she isn’t here. I am and I don’t want them. The woman I once looked up to with the highest of respect, with the uttermost love that a child could hold for a mother. The woman who looked down on me with disdain; I was not her perfect child, I never would be. But she would still tell me she loved me, and maybe that was enough. Even though I wouldn’t hear it for a long time.

I stopped answering her calls. I disregarded every rambling text and each reassuring voicemail. I would not hear another ‘I love you,’ not for another moment, not even before her last breath. To which, I wasn’t there to witness. I was too selfish.

I have nothing except this chair, this dusty gray reclining chair with hinges that squeaked with the slightest movement. That, and a side table, brown mahogany still as coolly dark as the day we got it yet chipped at most ends, scratched at the leg. The cat never learned. My black cat, my Shadow. The brattiest of the bunch, if it weren’t for my younger brother. He was a snob for a long time, but we grew up. He grew the most. He turned out mature and open-minded, so I had hoped. Never did get taller than me, I felt lucky for that. I was the tall one growing up yet I never did achieve the height I inevitably wished for at my late age. Mom used to say he would catch up. It took her a while, too.

She really was tall, the tall I never wished to be as a girl, but the tall I strived to reach past as a man. I ended up wanting the brute-like hands she felt disgraced for, and she always mooned over my princess-looking hands, the ones I have grown semi-acquainted to. My nails don’t seem to stop growing, she loved that, never ceased to tell me how pretty they are. She would take hold of them so often, reminisce in the moments of her fawning over them when I was a baby. She would tell me I got it from my father.

He’s sad about it, too. He’s sad that she’s gone. He won’t say it. You can feel it in his demeanor. I felt it the day of her funeral. We were in the car, on our way to the reception. He was drinking for the first time in a long time, a can of Bud Light tucked away into a Cardinal koozie. He always liked to play it discreet. I found it funny. He would ramble to me when he was drunk and sad, and I think it was what made me realize he wasn’t so bad at eighteen. He was so honest, too honest, and even more so when talking to me. It was no wonder I wound up the same.

“I really miss her.” He sighed loudly between the sound of Aerosmith playing from the aux of his phone. He still left it open on his lap, slugging down more booze. He still sat the same, hand resting 12 o’clock on the wheel like the cholo he dreamed to be, elbow propped against the middle console, can still firm in his grasp. Even in this state, I trusted him most with driving.

“Me and your mom.. We fought a lot. We weren’t always on the same page, you know that now. But she was still my friend, still your guys’ mom.” He trailed off, the guitar riff of Crazy following and settling between us. I could hear him humming along. It was their song after all, his song to her.

I never knew what to say at these times. I wasn’t good with death, never could find the response, never could feel it. It scared me.

It hit me a couple weeks later.

I found myself in one of my usual melancholic states, slumbered in bed, a raincloud resting above my head with every move. I was lucky if I could get up to the bathroom. It was easy to lose myself on these days, even more in the night, to sit in the dark for hours with nothing but music raging into my eardrums, trying desperately to push back any negative thoughts and destroying whatever hearing I had left in the process. I still handled these things like a disgruntled, rebellious teenager, like a temperamental, dramatic child who couldn’t contain their emotions.

And then I thought of her. I let myself slip into the spiral, let my grievance take its control, let it guide me to the pit of what darkness consumes my being--it had always been there. It was only a matter of when I chose to acknowledge it. I would listen to songs that reminded me of her, songs that we bonded over, music she showed to me and music I showed to her, the songs that made me hate and love her. She was the reason I turned into the virtuoso I am and it destroyed me. I sobbed. I screamed into my pillow with the assurance that no other soul could hear. I thrashed and punched with distraught perseverance, tense with agitation. I suddenly felt so lucky to live alone at this time, embarrassed of my own pathetic behavior. I would never grow out of it.

She would have been disappointed. She would have scolded me if she could. She would have told me to stop crying or I’ll make her cry, that I should celebrate and not mourn.

“I miss you, mom.” I sighed sorrowfully in hopes that somewhere her spirit may hear me, that she may know I acknowledge her existence, that it remains forever in my heart. “And I love you.”

I cried myself to sleep.

I woke up that next morning and I decided I would go to my mother’s. I had mostly avoided it since her passing. I couldn’t bear the energy, it made me want to puke. It was overwhelming in every way one could think. It was like she was still there. But I went in. And I would make note of every furniture piece and every component of the house, from dresser to couch, from dining table to bed, from the laundry unit to the stove, all chairs except for the old recliner. My recliner.

I would manage my composure, put everything up for sale, do more socializing and bargaining than I have for a lifetime in a week, find time and energy to work, to stay distracted. I had to keep moving until everything was gone. Until I was here.

I look to the envelope of cash on the side table, to the black, slightly worn-out moleskin next to it, the floppy pages covered in my scribbles out for display. My gaze wanders around me, attempts to familiarize, to take pictures of the home of many we once used to inhabit, and this was the last of it, this would be the last memory of her. I would sell this place, too. There is no telling when or how, but I knew I had to let this place go. I had to let her go. I had to move on.

And no, it wouldn’t be simple. But it would make every step of my grievance much easier than the last, teach me to relish in the more fonder memories, the good moments I shared before my mother lost her mind. I used the last pages of my notebook for her and I wrote a letter before I left.

“Hi, ma. :)

I have only ever been good at speaking to you when it’s written. I have constantly struggled to articulate my emotions and thoughts out loud, so I’m writing it here to you.

I sold everything in the house. Mostly everything. I still have my chair and the table Shadow used to always scratch on. You remember that, right? I hope so. I’m going to keep both. The rest of what I sold was worth $20K. Can you believe it? You probably would have tried for more. It’s okay though. I’m letting the boys split the money for themselves, they deserve it.

I’m not really sure what I’ll do. Things have been rough and you leaving hasn’t made things any easier. It’s actually really hard. Adulting is really hard. I hate it, honestly.

Sometimes I still wish I could talk to you about this stuff, the things going on in my head and what’s happening in my life. It’s weird because I always felt like I couldn’t talk to you and now I want to tell you everything. I suppose the only thing I can say is thank you. I know we fought a lot, and I know I really was an annoyingly obnoxious and temperamental teenager at times, and I did shit (pardon my language) I shouldn’t have. But in the end, you did make me the person I am, you did make me stronger, and I absolutely resented you for a long time because of how you did it. I’m no longer holding onto that. I forgive you.

I know you said not to mourn once you’re gone, but don’t hold it against me if I do. I know I wasn’t around enough. You still mean everything to me. You’re still my mom. I still miss you. I hope wherever you’re at is better than here. I hope you’re happy.

Warmest Regards,

Your first-born child

P.S. I love you.”