Sometimes I remember how your skin looked, blistered and moist from laying still for so long. Some days, as I’m sitting doing something mediocre, a smell passes gently past my nose and I remember the smell of the hospital mixed with the sweet scent of oil seeping through your sores. I know why I've blocked these memories, these grey ghosts of the past. When that week from hell pulled you away from us. How Beautiful and full of vibrant life you were. There was a certain spark that I have yet to see in another human’s eyes. They way you loved so completely, yet erred so humanly. I often think back and remember that night of my 21st birthday when you helped me drink myself to sleep. When you showed me you weren't just a Christian at your core, but also a young girl with a fire blazing in her heart. Struggling in your later years to make peace with that wild spirit, and somehow tame what always lurked in the depth of you. Trying to make us better women. Trying to keep us from what you spent so many years crying and aching over. The realization that this world we are conscious in belongs to self-pleasing arrogant men. But underneath all that realization of greed and pleasure seeking selfishness was your need for hope. Hope in humanity and love. Hope in a God you devoted your life to and hope for your children that you would have ultimately given your life for.
I remember those memories because they don't leave my soul with a stabbing pain that cuts to my heart. I remember those memories because I remember the essence of who you were. Not whispering goodbye in the ear of an unconscious body.
Did you hear me when I said my goodbyes? Did you understand me when I told you I was sorry for not loving you more? I don't know. I would like to pretend that you weren't aware of the doctors releasing you of your pain. I would like to believe that you weren't in there anymore trying to say your goodbyes to us. So I remember the bedsores and breathing machines to remind me that I need to love what is in front of me, and not wait until my last breath to remind me of what I live for.
I remember those memories because they don't leave my soul with a stabbing pain that cuts to my heart. I remember those memories because I remember the essence of who you were. Not whispering goodbye in the ear of an unconscious body.
Did you hear me when I said my goodbyes? Did you understand me when I told you I was sorry for not loving you more? I don't know. I would like to pretend that you weren't aware of the doctors releasing you of your pain. I would like to believe that you weren't in there anymore trying to say your goodbyes to us. So I remember the bedsores and breathing machines to remind me that I need to love what is in front of me, and not wait until my last breath to remind me of what I live for.
