I buried myself today. Only half a person left. I should be there with him—tucked into his arms forever. His love never to be felt again. His strength sapped from me. A hollow shell of who I should be. Memories that can’t caress or soothe. No one left who knows me as well.
I hug Soko’s pillow, hoping for a scent of him. My sorrow mimics the emptiness of his side of the bed. Then I laugh, thinking about the time he asked me what twerking was. I was the cool one, so he didn’t question me when I said, “twerking is a person who tweets.” We both laughed when we saw Miley Cyrus twerking with Robin Thicke at the MTV Video Music Awards.
Our girls, my loves, come once a week to drop off empty boxes for me to fill. Another nursing home brochure shows up with each visit. They talk about downsizing. Clearing the clutter. Using words like hoarding. I’ve seen those TV shows. I’m not like them.
No one asks me what I want. They arrange my life. Not behind my back, but right in front of me. As if they’re entitled to make my decisions for me. Like what I want doesn’t matter. I’ve told them I won’t go. I know they’re worried about me. Wanting the best for me. But they don’t know me. Not even my name. What I’ve been through. What I’ve seen. I’m just Mom.