She waited

Now that I think about it, I feel like the room haunted him. A little room in the corner of the ground floor, collecting dust. The blinds were never opened; the room slowly grew darker and darker; it grew cluttered with boxes and letters and anything else meant to be hidden. In some way, the room was neglected.

And yet.

And yet, I could still smell her, the antiseptic, the tobacco, the Boroline; you could hear her, the sound of her needles snapping away, her laugh lighting up the room; I could feel her, even though I knew she wasn’t there anymore.

She hadn’t been in that tiny little room in years. Dad kept it furnished, hoping that one day she’d be back. Her current room was nice, but not the same. It was sunny in California, but it wasn’t that tiny little room that was so packed with memories that they had probably seeped into the walls and wedged themselves beneath the floorboards.

The sunny room has its own nostalgia, just not as fond.

We used to knit. I remember coming back from an art class and showing her what I had learned. The confusion on her face slowly morphed into a smile and laughter spilled from her lips. Even as a child, I didn’t feel ridiculed. I felt loved. In the end, she taught me how to do it her way, and we wasted an afternoon together in that tiny little room. She sat on her chair, I sat on the bed, and she held my hands and maneuvered them in a way she saw fit.

Her hands were wrinkled, sprinkled with creases, and soft. I wondered if I would ever have hands like that, pudgy like cherubs. Now I wonder if I should have cherished holding her hands more often.

Finals were excruciating. The car ride home was nerve-wracking. The flight was mind-numbing. The tiny room had been hidden away behind a closed door and before I could think to open it I was in the sunny room. It was late. The sunny room was ironically dark. It was fitting though as all good things eventually came to an end, the light gave way to the dark, the day gave way to the night. And likewise, the living gave way to the dead.

Her hands were so small. Were they always so small? When she had held your hands last, they had engulfed yours and yet here they were, so delicate and weak. Her eyes wandered to my face and flitted away and my eyes burned. She asks my mom when I got here and that’s about all I can take.

She barely responds anymore. Earlier this week she couldn’t recognize her own sons.

She waited for you.

The room haunts my dad, and those words haunt me.

I sat with my father that night. I think about what it must feel like to lose a mother and decide that I should at least attempt to provide some comfort. I end up soaking his shirt in my tears. It’s the first time in years either of us had truly had a conversation that didn’t involve spite. The thought left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth and I woke up the next day with salt crusted in my eyelashes.

Her nurse has kind eyes and you talk some the next morning. I wish I could have met her on better terms. She’s like an angel of death, only present before the inevitable. When the small talk putters off, she tells me it’ll all work out; I don’t think I’ve ever been lied to my face like that by a stranger before.

I cook dinner and the mouse freezes and there’s a lot of screaming. I lock myself away in the closet and wish the tension would just dissipate, wish that this wasn’t happening right now, wish that this wouldn’t happen ever. I cry like the child I wish I was instead of this half-ass adult that doesn’t know what to do.

Dinner goes just fine but the pictures come out dark and I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be thankful for anymore.

The night encroaches and the mood goes sour. One by one the kids go to bed and at one point my dad sends me off too. The room’s too cold, my mind’s too full, and I can’t sleep.

By the time my mother coaxes me awake, all I can do is mumble that I know. It’s beautiful outside, not a sign of rain, and yet all our faces are too wet for the sunny room.

She shrunk, as though her soul took a physical part of her body before departing. Her hands were oh so soft, and this time they were still. Outside, my uncle's smile doesn’t reach his eyes and my dad’s already on the phone with the cremation services and I wish I could scream because why won’t anybody recognize that this isn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it never will be fair.

She never fucking deserves the years and years of pain she was put through and the universe is fucked and I-

The kids start to cry as the severity of the situation dawns on them. The nurse tells me it’ll be okay again and again and again and again. I wish I could purge the white body bag from my mind but it’s ingrained in the deepest part of my brain.

That night we sang, we played, we enjoyed. It felt like a betrayal even though everybody said it was a blessing in her name. Everyone kept saying,

She waited for you.

She’ll give you a sign.

She knew you loved her.

I stayed in the sunny room for a long time that night. I never could tell if she was there with me or not, but I’d like to believe she was wherever would make her happy.

The flight back was mind-numbing. The car ride was nerve-wracking. And as I sat in my room, alone that night, the memories were excruciating.

I should have called more.

I should have done more.

I should have, I could have, I didn’t, I can’t.

I really did love you, Ma.