Dear Momma,
Two years and two months. That’s how long you’ve been in heaven. A lot of things have happened. I turned 21. I moved out. I work too much to be considered good anymore. I can’t be alone. I think too much about stuff when I’m alone. I have two roommates. You probably would’ve worried about my choice of them even though I believe they’re good choices. There’s never a dull moment in our apartment.
Right around my 21st birthday, I was pretty depressed. I could tell something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what it was. I realized that all of the thoughts I’d had leading up to that point were causing me to be depressed. All the promises. For example, you told me you had to be here for my 21st birthday and you weren’t. You had to make it to see Chris and Nick’s graduations. You didn’t. There are so many things I wish I could’ve told you.
After your death, I can’t watch certain things on TV anymore. For example, I was re-watching Grey’s Anatomy for probably the thirteenth time and the episode we hated came on. The episode when Derek died after being pronounced brain dead in the hospital. Meredith was at his side talking to him and all I could see were flashbacks of Chris, Nick and I by your bedside. Me telling you we would be okay if you went to heaven even though I had a selfish part of me that wanted to say I wouldn’t.
I probably cried for a solid ten minutes because, after that one part of the episode, all I could see and think of was your death in the hospital. I couldn’t look up from the spot on my wall by my bedside. I was completely out of it. Anything that happened in those episodes that didn’t register in my brain, I never heard or watched after that one part. It felt like I’d lost you all over again. I know that feeling will never completely leave, it’ll just be dormant for awhile until it decides it’s time for me to feel it again.
My grief comes in waves. I’ll never be completely better just patched up with a bit of tape and glue. You may have been in my life for a short time, but I’ll never forget any memories. My overthinking brain will never let me forget them. I can lie awake at night (or during the day if I work overnights) and conjure up any image I want. I can go through my camera roll and find at least half a dozen photos that all remind me of a funny story we experienced.
I don’t even have to leave my apartment complex before I come across a squirrel and get reminded of the many stories we have of encounters with squirrels. These few good memories are the only things that get me through the single most worst memory I have of you in the hospital.
I’ll never forget the things you taught me, momma.
I love you and miss you all the time,
Your Babyroses
