What cremains
I used to ask my mom why she didn’t just abort me.
It was 1973 when I was conceived. She could have. She was 16.
She wanted nothing more than to be my momma. She knew then.
I just had the thought that she died too young. Too freaking young.
But it hit me that what if she had me at 30-ish, when my grandparents had her?
We would have gotten 15 fewer years together.
When I look back at photos, I see how fragile she was all along. And I get mad at myself for how many times I wished we just lived separately.
Like, I loved her to absolute pieces but I don’t think humans of any genders, ages or relationships should spend that much time together.
But, when I think about it, we were better together than most spouses and siblings. That’s where the ache really comes from — the fact that, for the most part, it was just easy.
And now, it’s all gone.
I came back from Orlando changed. Sadder, yes. But this is the second trip I’ve taken with the cats and third on my own. And coming home to an empty house becomes slightly less of a shock each time.
“Mama, I could use some help here
Tired of talking to myself here
Back at home, you don’t exist
So here I am in the abyss
Are you really in this place?
It’s like the emptiness of space
I could search for all eternity
And never see your face
Help me out
I’m lost without you.”
The cats are uninvited from the next trip, which my friend CJ thinks is hilarious. Like, they got themselves disqualified because they were goobers.
I guess I just can’t believe there was a life with Mom and a life after Mom. It was always “You and Me Against the World.”
Now it’s the entire Beetlejuice Broadway soundtrack.
“The nothingness ahead of me
Is this the end you meant for me?
Every living minute
There’s no home without you in it
I’m falling
Quit stalling
Your daughter is calling your name
I’ve burned all my bridges and games.”
And it still is Momma and me against the world. Even if it’s just me and the cremains I carry in my car.
