It’s been almost 15 months since my mom died. With her death, I lost myself.
Grief, for me, has been a physically visceral, primally emotional decay.
It bore holes in my heart. The kind that don’t heal. That don’t fill back up. Bottomless.
It’s killed cells. I feel the static flow of dead waste float through me. Encased.
It’s cut synapses. Vital surges lost. Slowing me down. Stopping me in my tracks. Misfires.
It blocks veins and airways from the free flow of blood and breath. Barricaded.
It shadows my sight. Blinding.
It silences my voice. Strangling.
Grief is blinding light and gruesome darkness, all at once.
It sears my skin and freezes my movements, my thoughts, my heartbeats.
Like a woodpecker, grief clings to my core with its sharp talons and pecks pecks pecks away whatever has been left behind. The rhythmic staccato drowning out the waling sobs that come from somewhere deep and primal within me.
She died. And my home went with her. Swallowed up by the beast and buried, never to be visited again. The cord cut. The doors closed. Windows blockaded. Boxes and boxes of photos and memorabilia, pieces of her pieces of me pieces of us, sunk to the bottom of a fierce ocean. Full of blood thirsty sharks. Eager to fight and bite and go out for blood.
I lost so much more than just, Her. I travel back to my hometown, but she is no longer here and I am no longer welcome in the house that still stands, lifeless and cold without her.
Instead, I travel back to my hometown and seek solace and comfort and peace in those who choose to be family out of love. No obligation. No familial lineage. The ones who create my village do so out of kindness and genuine love and acceptance. And those are the ones that matter. They are the ones who show up. Hold my hand. Catch me when I fall.
How lucky I am to have my village. The chosen family. The ones who stay.