Caterwauling

90 days ago, my Momma passed.

30 days ago, I said that out loud for the first time.

17 years ago today, she moved in with me. I thought then that my life was great and this would change it.

To be clear, my life was NOT great. It was fine, though. I thought I would meet a nice guy and start a family. Stop working so much at some point.

I was 33, after all. Back when I cared about such things.

I was not nice about Mom moving in. I am sure there are dozens of posts about my “houseguest” that I would regret today.

But at some point, I went from feeling obligated to realizing that the right thing to do would be to WANT her there. That it was a choice we — I — made. And that helped a lot.

And life did change with her … for the better.

Every memory was made with her.

Every ordinary thing was made more beautiful by her.

She always had advice. Or a joke. Or an outfit to lend. Or the right encouragement at the right time.

I probably wasn’t the best daughter, even so. I did kind of have my moments where I wondered if I would have found a better man than the losers I did find, since there really wasn’t much room for three of us.

Though she did have me buy things in threes for a while. Boy did she like one of the losers. Three plates, three cups, three placemats, etc.

So now I have her stuff, my stuff AND stuff for that someone who didn’t stick and all the others who weren’t worthy of being part of a “Big Three” situation.

I asked the Tarot what becomes of me.

My favorite question.

Its favorite answer is “The Lovers.”

So, there will be another someone. Of some sort.

Also if I understand tarot timing, I also get the Two of Pentacles on that one.

Two years.

In the meantime, there is silence. So much silence.

And that means … so much THINKING.

I was thinking out loud a bit today. I’ve had cats for 30 years so force of habit.

But I stopped myself.

“You have nothing to say … and no one to say it to. SHUT UP, MIND.”

What I was thinking was that I still need a lot of grace.

It will be a long time before I come to terms with going from being Robin’s daughter to just being another kid who lost their mom.

Not to act like a saint here. I was ready to be “just Dawn” a whole lot more than I let on.

When she was slipping, I said something awful.

It was something I had been thinking about, to justify my utter and complete exhaustion with feeding and bathing and dressing and cleaning and working and worrying — MY GOD the worrying.

I had let it slide right out of my face that I’d nearly raised her for 18 years. My obligation was complete.

I still want to cut off my ponytail and hang myself for that one.

I didn’t mean it. It was in my head because I was thinking that, for someone who did not ever want kids, I ended up raising one for the number of years you are obligated to raise one.

But when you are at your wits’ end and so frustrated that she hates the food or can’t swallow it or throws it up on both of you, your filter works as well as some howler monkey’s on a treadmill.

I’m sure I said a lot of stupid shit over the years. But that one bugs the fuck out of me.

She was hurt, too. But didn’t fight. She knew it was in the midst of an awful moment and she hated how many of those she had to subject me to.

In the silence, this is what you are left with.

There’s a new meme going around that when our parents said, “I’l give you something to cry about,” they meant decades of unresolved trauma.

I don’t laugh much, but that one got a smile out of me. She never meant to make me crazy. I did that to myself

She never felt entitled to anything. Though I did shower her with gifts and meals and trips and hell she even got the better bedroom in most of our places.

That was something I felt my grandmother did. Was not wildly affectionate but could show affection in other ways than love and hugs. I am more like her. Mom and Grampy were more of the huggy, emotional types. I won’t hug you but I will send you an incredibly personal gift that I searched 14 stores for.

I mean, Mom did that too. Always perfect. The right thing to say, to give, to respond, to fix everything.

So, here’s hoping I have that too.

I know I do. I am many things, but Robin’s daughter is the only one worth a damn in this messed-up world.

I just worry that “just Dawn” ain’t shit without her.

Growing up with a mom who worked in a funeral home gives you a fascination with death.

That all started when my cousin’s husband died. He got drunk and his dog ate his face. Not sure if he was dead first or if Prince killed him. But dude was always drunk.

I was living in Highland Park at the time. Came home to a message from my mom singing, “A tisket, a tasket. We’re going to pick a casket!”

My Disney princess was the best Disney princess.

Anyway Mom ended up working part-time at that funeral home. She was the greeter and she decorated the place and ran the show.

I am not supposed to share that she cosmetized the bodies sometimes, as that requires licensing. But like all family funeral homes, it got gobbled up by a national chain.

So it doesn’t even exist anyway. Like anything or anyone I loved.

And it’s not that I was a fan of the original “Beetlejuice” movie beyond hometown hero Michael Keaton’s appearance in it.

And I never got to see Beetlejuice’s Graveyard Revue in Orlando or the Dark Universe land at Universal. Both closed, boo.

But I saw the off-Broadway production … TWICE … and it stole my heart.

When Kelly and I went the first time, I cried the whole show. She even asked me if I was OK a few times. And I said no but I loved it.

I much prefer the Broadway adaptation. In the original, Lydia’s mom left. In the show, her mom Emily died and Lydia runs through the afterlife trying (unsuccessfully) to find her.

But isn’t it weird that Lydia can see everyone’s ghost but the one she wanted most?

My mom was psychic. I remember all the stories she would tell me of what she saw, heard or just innately knew.

She had all kinds of spirit encounters, mostly through dreams.

I used to rib her, like why do you know all these random people’s business (Cindy) but you never hear from your own mom? You can’t figure out where we should move or if I’ll ever get married … but you can pinpoint Howler Monkey’s deepest insecurities without even hearing her record-scratching voice?

Anyway, that was why the Beetlejuice musical was so exquisite.

I knew I was losing my Momma. I knew I would want to run through the afterlife to see her again … and couldn’t.

Lydia went on to live a happy life with Geena Davis and one of the Baldwin brothers. Not too shabby. She also had Catherine O’Hara and the guy who had kiddie porn or something. And he didn’t make it to the reboot that I saw in Orlando last week; nor did the ghosts who aren’t supposed to age, so they didn’t even try to show them.

I loved the movie sequel. Again, not the storyline I fell in love with. But a GenX Lydia haunted by ghosts and questionable life choices is my spirit animal.

Anyway I’ve been on this weird hunt for Beetlejuice merch. In the midst of cleaning out all the stuff we bought (and never used), I do not need more stuff.

But it’s my season, Halloween, so all bets are off.

I already plan to be more depressed at Christmas, so I won’t be joyfully doing anything other than having a salad instead of a two-person family feast.

I even have a few Beetlejuice Halloween costumes and a leather coat lying around here. I mean, I bought a few sizes but I am pleased to say I am not as fat as I think or say, hooray.

In any event, I read a lot about people who are experiencing a death. I envy those who have all these beautiful bedside conversations. I think 90% of those stories are exaggerated. But, whatever gets you through this hell, right?

Mom’s last food-food was a bite or two of birthday cake, which I’d wisely ordered for the day before my birthday. It’s like I freaking knew.

She spent my birthday in bed. The whole day. For the first time. She was ALWAYS out in the living room otherwise.

She thought, let me just rest today and we’ll have a good day tomorrow or the next day.

She never got out of that bed other than to use the bathroom or shower. That took every ounce of strength, and back in she had to go.

She could manage that on her own and I dressed her wound and got her clothes on.

It was always a race while she showered to get her bedsheets switched out because I insisted on a fresh bed for her several times a week.

So I would often go dark on Teams because we did it when she felt good enough. Or, less lousy, as it were.

In my head, I knew it was an honor and a privilege. But I was tired, too. I spent my birthday on the couch streaming “The Eras Tour” from whatever country she was in that day.

She was cogent till the end. But that last day, when I finally got smart enough to drag a chair and the Christmas tree (!) into her room, was pretty silent.

Her eyes were open and darting around. She was watching a “television” only she could see. I read a Kindle book and drank a bottle of wine from the bottle.

I can’t drink that vintage anymore.

I did hold her hand. I was never good at affection. Ask anyone I ever dated. I repel hugs. I squirmed away from my Momma a million and a half times.

Belly does the same to me now. Like love me … from over there.

Anyway she wasn’t really up for conversation but she definitely laughed and reacted to the few witticisms I offered up.

I just wish the last moments were “I love yous” exchanged or wisdom imparted.

But the thing with illness is you have plenty of time to talk about that stuff. So, it’s not that there wasn’t much left to talk about. It’s just that there is no passing peacefully.

You just try to be present and aware.

To love them out.

I’ve become acutely aware of the spirit world since she’s been gone. She sends me dreams all the time.

And I don’t believe in God or heaven or anything like that. But I do think there’s a parallel universe, about a foot or two off our ground.

I think they are zipping around like Star in the Disney movie “Wish.” They see and hear us, but not like they used to. I think it’s more of an awareness of us rather than seeing us in the shower or other weird shit.

But I do have to laugh. Mom was good at picking losers. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Beetlejuice type was always trying to pick her up now. I hope she outruns him eternally.

One of the many things I liked about the Beetlejuice sequel was when Lydia’s daughter Astrid saw her dad in the afterlife.

Where Lydia didn’t get to see her mom, her dad rescued her in one final act of love.

Kelly and I had a disagreement the other day. She’s one of those “everything happens for a reason” people. I am not. You tell me why my mom had to get sick and die. You tell me why Israel is killing hostages and people in Gaza just got their first shipment of fruit and vegetables in 11 months.

She shrugs. It just does, she says.

I’ll leave it at that for now.

Maybe Mom saves me in some way from the afterlife. Maybe she pushes a howler monkey off their treadmill.

Like Grampy, days after he died, surely pushed Blob off his Harley.

As if I needed more reason to believe in the spirit world.

I always cry when awards shows get to the “In Memoriam” part.

Like tonight’s Emmys. Where I was quite moved by one Jellyroll.

I woke up today
I almost stayed in bed
Had the devil on my back
And voices in my head
Some days, it ain’t all bad
Some days, it all gets worse
Some days, I swear I’m better off
Layin’ in that dirt.

Ran myself ragged again today. Had one errand to run (I couldn’t find my favorite chocolate peanut butter beer from Epcot locally) so I went to North Miami and made a day of it.

Just as I was taking my exit, the skies opened up.

I was grateful that I wouldn’t be driving in the rain.

But then I saw two abandoned shopping carts filled with someone’s (or someones’) entire life possessions, and my heart broke.

I like to think my angels are watching me and making sure I’m safe and happy. Where were their angels?

When I came home, I saw the street cats. They still perk up when they hear my car.

I haven’t fed them in five months now. I still feel like shit every day about it. I love them and hope someone loves on them.

Kind of like I hoped someone loves on those people whose carts (and probably whose bodies) were getting soaked.

I finally accept that I wanted to give up on the street cats.

Everyone knows (because I told them) I was just at my wits’ end and not sleeping and ready to murder Butterface and Latin Bitch Boy.

Which is true. But now they know my Momma was dying and I was BEYOND my wits’ end.

I mean, I should have returned to the routine. But … I don’t wanna. I still hate my neighbors.

And now I have this fun problem of having no strength or motivation.

Mom lost her dad when she was newly 50. The irony is not lost on me.

I used to get so mad at her that she grieved for the next 17 years. Like, you came to live with me. Now, LIVE.

Hindsight being what it is, grief takes everything out of you. Your ability to feel good. Mentally or physically. I have never hurt so much and not just my heart.

Losing her daddy was Mom’s downfall. What if it’s mine?

Anyway I know it’s wrong to look at the people with the carts or the sad, skinny little cats and hope someone else is kind to them.

But, I’m not asking anyone to be kind to me. I helped in my better seasons. And I hope I will again.

Could someone, anyone step in and be the angel that is clearly missing in these and a billion other scenarios until I figure out how to get my shit back together to do my part again?

I’ve been listening to the Disney Halloween playlist on Apple Music.

It includes a lot of songs from “The Descendants.”

Which, I discovered after a long and miserable day at my storage unit, is an adorable series of movies about the children of Disney villains given a shot at redemption.

The music is amazing. It reminds me of “Six,” the play we saw earlier this year about the wives of Henry VIII. And now those are all mashed up in my tear-stained brain.

In the first (2015) Descendants movie, Mal, daughter of Maleficent, is on a date with Belle and Beast’s son, Ben.

Mal sings about whether he’ll still want her after the magic spell she put on him runs out.

Given that one of the movies is “Mal & Ben’s Wedding,” I’m going to say she’s fine.

I like the inherent struggle all these characters face, between taking over the idyllic kingdom and restoring their parents’ power or actually enjoying the fruits (literal fruits; Mal has never had strawberries before) of being good.

Anyway the title of this post really struck a chord with me.

How do you go on when the magic your momma brought to your life every day for 50 years is gone.

I used to get in fights with people and think it was worse than them being dead. That they are out there living and either don’t want anything to do with you (with you dead to them) or cannot leave you alone (e.g., always ready to remind you they aren’t dead).

There is a certain peace in knowing that your beloveds (or be-hateds) have crossed over. You know where they are.

You do not get new information to process, generally. You get some more perspective on who they were and your relationship with them.

But overall, they are preserved in amber and even the less pleasant memories tend to fade faster than the rest.

What’s sad is when there was so much magic and then it runs out because their time did.

Like I cannot wait from trump and his ilk to kick off. But no, those Disney villains keep reproducing and recruiting.

I wonder how many people out there are walking around with their hearts and tear ducts ready to explode because they had something so good and now they have nothing.

I got to talking to Peanut’s mom last night. Mom was a huge fan of Peanut. And she just died not from surgery but from the anesthesia.

I told her mom that MY mom was a huge fan. And that my mom was probably in line to love on Peanut at the Rainbow Bridge.

Peanut’s mom remarked on me losing Cocoa and Mom together, as she lost a hoomin recently too. That it’s unforgivable to have so much loss, so close together.

It’s in moments like that where we still find magic. Another person seeing you, really seeing you.

That’s what I don’t have anymore. That and stuffing balls.

Christ, I cannot even think about Thanksgiving. With no magical balls to be grateful for, what else is there?

Friday the 13th.

I haven’t been out of the house since I got home from Orlando.

This is not me. I was walking 25,000 steps a day when I was gone. I was free. I was happy.

Did not gain an ounce.

Now I’m back to drinking a half-bottle of wine a day and I’m up four pounds since Tuesday.

Charming.

I have a dress for a party that I bought a long time ago, thinking surely I will lose 10 pounds and it will be perfect.

Well I’m up eight pounds from that time.

Charming!

When Mom was here and not actively dying, I ran out every night for some sort of dinner or missing ingredient. I don’t do that anymore. Sometimes I go to the gym. Sometimes I crack open dinner in my gym clothes that don’t leave the house.

Today was another first, though.

I was typing something somewhere, and I wrote that I live alone.

I have not lived alone since Sept. 18, 2007, when Mom moved to Maryland. Unceremoniously dumped on my doorstep by Blob with the suspenders.

Talk about someone who not only deserves to die, but actively wished the wife he was separated from at the time that she would die on the operating table because she was getting gastric bypass.

They got back together once Mom came to live with me. They remind me of a certain Greenacres couple, Norbit and Rasputia.

In any event, I guess I don’t live alone, as I have codependent kiddos. But as I sit here trying to throw together details for an unexpected trip, I am really feeling the absence of my someone who would help me without fail or question.

I already miss my someone so freaking much. And times like this only make this great big loss that much greater.

Only one thing can save us. Only the young… can run.
byu/Pudix20 inTaylorSwift

Something changed in me today.

I immediately thought, “I woke up different.” So I set out to find the meme I’d saved by the same name.

It’s beautiful. But it’s not quite fitting.

Luckily this other meme came up in the same search.

I guess it’s really not a meme. And it’s really not what’s in my head. But it’s not like there’s a perfect platitude when you’re just a girl who’s lost her mom.

What I mean by waking up different is sad (of course) but almost hopeful.

Almost Hopeful should have been the title of this tome.

Mom’s been gone almost 90 days. And it really took till today for me to realize, she is not coming back. Not in the human form, anyway.

And maybe, just maybe, I will be OK.

My cousin is farther along on the grief express. Her mom died on Sept. 22. (And her baby was born on Sept. 26.) So she’s shipping them all to Tokyo for the remainder of the month.

Here I’ve been trying to figure out how to get through Mom’s birthday. Thanksgiving. Christmas. And a whole new year without her.

I hadn’t thought much about the anniversary date. Father’s Day.

Now I’m starting to wonder if I’m not thinking big enough.

Like, I am just trying to figure out how to get through the holidays without her famous stuffing balls.

And I give myself that grace. Take one holiday or milestone at a time. Try not to notice there’s an absolute fuckload of events after those to navigate, too.

I don’t think Mom would hate if I went to Disneyland Tokyo on the big anniversary. Or maybe she would because she couldn’t stand my Japan calls. Disneyland Paris?

Anyway, maybe I didn’t wake up so different after all. But the word “acceptance” keeps rolling around in my head.

I know why, though.

I still dream about her every night. She is always young and vibrant and laughing and zany and adorable.

And it hits me that, while I only have a few photos of her over the past 10 years, she never looked all that healthy in any of them.

Always in pain. Always faking it. Always saying she felt good enough to do whatever adventure I planned.

Memories can lie. Cameras, not so much.

So my dream Mom comes to me around age 30 to 40. And I love to see it.

Mom & Maddie when I traveled. Found this in my grandfather’s wallet next to a baby picture of me.

That’s kind of where the acceptance comes in.

I accept that she clung to a life and a body that held on as long as they could, and maybe even a little longer because of her sheer optimism and hope.

I say that about Cocoa, that I probably gave her a good extra year with the medicine. And Momma had always countered that I probably gave Cocoa four extra years, as that’s how long I had her.

We never saw kitties at that ghetto Target again. Who knows what happened to them. But my baby Bella is a healthy 5-year-old now. And Cokes got 15 years’ worth of love in her short four years.

Cokie and Grammy wanted to stay. Their bodies just wouldn’t let them. And I loved them both out, the best I could.

Maybe it’s time to start forgiving myself for not doing more, and loving myself for what I could and did do.

To love is to be vulnerable, saith C.S. Lewis.

And to manage not to put up my “Don’t Treadmill on Me” sign on my Teams profile is to be a goddamn hero.

My friend asked if I’m back home and how the rest of my trip went, as we last spoke halfway through it.

My answer:

“The scariest headwear at the Disney Halloween parade was maga hats. All but my last day got rained out. Met nice people and ate a ton. I feel like a stuffed pork chop and I hate everything. But for a little while I was just a random girl on vacation and not the sad bitch who is avoiding Treadmill (redacted).”

Her reply:

“Damn, I didn’t know a short text could make me want to scream cry and laugh with such force. Treadmill (redacted) is better than any name trump could come up with.”

Not that there is a single silver lining in my life right now.

But I will say, at least I haven’t said anything about work that could give me heartburn.

I guess till this post anyway.

Seriously, why does someone amazing die but …

Yeah, never mind.

In any event, I was on a roll till someone informed me they must check all my work.

This they told me two days ago that I had written something wrong and I sent them a screenshot of THEIR mistake that I was copying for consistency.

Also we have amazing copywriters and editorial writers all through the company. And they pay two freelancers who couldn’t sell a MeowBook Pro to my cats.

I keep dodging this person who keeps insisting on meeting rather than her just giving me a link I asked for.

I remember how she treated me like garbage for a year and a half. I no longer have a problem with her but let’s not jeopardize that peace, hey?

I know. I’m 50. Though I’ll always be 30ish to Cindy.

Anyway, it’s almost 90 days that Momma is gone. I never went 90 minutes without talking to her.

Even if I went on a trip alone, we texted the whole time. She would always thank me for taking her with me.

I still text her. Not as much, of course. But, when I remember an inside joke I don’t want to forget.

Though Siri needs as much help as some copy types.

My friend picked up what I put down.

Not just that I am a sad bitch. Which, SO accurate.

Rather that, in a familiar town full of strangers, I was whoever they might have imagined me to be.

Childless cat lady.

Brave girl to travel without a man or a friend.

Big spender (albeit with Disney points).

Adventurous eater (stuffed pork chop).

Cool ears girl (which, I love my ears).

If they even saw me.

Which, other than Susan, Tiffany, Christina, Matty, Rachel and Terra — over the course of 10 days — oh and that cute guy at Giordano’s — I can assume they did not.

I come home and I’m back to being the girl who lost her mom.

I guess I’m still all those other things.

But this is how I define myself more than anything.

Even more than stuffed pork chop.

I’ve probably written about my AP Classics teacher Leona Helmsley. (I forget her real name but seems fitting.)

Leona always reminded us, “You’re special, just like everyone else.”

I’ve thought about this since Mom died. A lot.

We were always special.

I had a young mom. We looked alike. We enjoyed each others’ company. We did everything together. We always had each other.

I’ve been acutely aware since June 16 that I am no longer special.

I don’t have my mom to make me special.

To make me FEEL special.

To prove to me over and over again, in a world determined to prove otherwise, that I really AM special.

Like, now I am just like everyone else.

Just another girl who’s lost her mom.

Another person who has to go through life without a single soul who believes in her or loves her for all she is and for all she isn’t.

And when you think about it, she couldn’t beat this stupid, wretched illness she got.

So maybe, in that, she wasn’t special, either.

I mean, I would punch anyone in their caricature-quality face if they said that last part anywhere I could hear it.

Hey Cindy memba this shit?

Like, the nerve of anyone without anything that makes THEM special, thinking they can make us feel not special.

Though I’ve spent an entire lifetime, career and dating history on hoping maybe the next asshole will be different. Nothing like having a loser try to make US feel like nothing.

I have been a bit obsessed with this whole ordinary-ness of it all. I kind of understand some people whom I’ve called names like ugly or stupid or frumpy or whatever variation of dipshit I’ve felt they deserved.

I mean, I still do. But really what I was saying is I/we were absolutely extraordinary and they were forgettable. Which, honestly, calling them that would have been more honest/hurtful than any other adjective.

I don’t want to be forgettable.

Everyone knew and remembered my mom. I finally got brave enough to post her photo on Faceypages and I got 60 people in an hour to say oh we loved your Momma.

How unbelievable that you two aren’t together right now. You were inseparable. You were always a unit.

And now, she is a memory.

I told my friend Eva that I think I am regressing. I was super sad … then I was functional … and now I am in the fucking abyss.

She said you’re not regressing. You are grieving. Something you are going to do every day for the rest of your life, on different “volumes.”

Some days it’s a 10, some it’s a 4; you just try to get to your new baseline and pretty soon it’s as much a part of you as your green eyes and blonde hair.

So, I am indeed special. Just like everyone else.

I don’t want to be “special” special. I want to be extraordinary.

My momma wasn’t just extraordinary. She was EXQUISITE.

I was thinking on the drive home, it’s not that this is my time to remember who I was.

(That girl died with her Momma. And her Cocoa. And her Maddie and Kadie. And her Gram and Grampy and Old Gram. And her Sia and Janna and Jane and Jesse and Larry and Elaine and everyone else who’s on her spirit team.)

Our only “family” picture with Cokes and Bell. And mom’s beloved birdos.

It’s my time to figure out who I will be next.

(The Dawn who doesn’t have that amazing family with her here. But the Dawn who does have Shan and Meg and Belly and Magic.)

I just wish that Dawn had cat-sitters. Because those jabronis need to learn to scoop their own shit otherwise so I can go see Taylor Swift, who belongs to both Dawns.

How do I get to be THAT special, like Taylor? I don’t need to be beloved. I just need to create.

That’s the meaning of life, to me, loud and clear. To create. To leave a legacy. Like my family did. Even though I’m the only one who remembers them, who do I get to remember me when Cindy’s hopped in her doom buggy and can’t click on my blog anymore?

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.