the last time

     The last time I saw Jeane was fifteen years ago. Every time I drive by our old neighborhood, I am reminded of what happened to us. Why couldn’t I fix it. Why couldn’t I be there for her when she needed me most. She had no one in this world to depend on except for me and Tom.

     Her parents died when she was 16, and I guess that left her with more scars than she cared to show. She did her best to provide for me, but there was only so much she could do. I was handed over to my adopted mom at 8. Tamara and John are lovely people, but I will never forget the day that they took me from Jeane. I did not want to leave her. She had never done anything but good for me. She only wanted me to do my best. She was only doing her best, too. They showed up at our house, the men in the black suits. Jeane knew that this was it. She told me to go and get my stuff and my books, and to make sure that I had everything that I wanted to take with me. She told me that I was going away, and she would be sure to visit me every now and then. I asked her where I was going, but she told me she loved me and kissed me and gave me to the men. In that moment, I remember seeing her more heartbroken than I had ever seen her before. I remember her crying. I had never seen her cry before. Even when Tom hit her, she never cried. I screamed, and reached out for her, and the men ripped me away. 

     Every now and then, she would visit, but only for a moment, before she had to leave, each time more heartbroken than the last. It must have been a few years before she gave up. Her scars had fully resurfaced, and covered her whole body. By the time she had swallowed all of the pills, her strings had all broke. Tom always said he loved her. But I guess he found the bottle more attractive. I miss you, Mom.

a eulogy from the foster kid