Before you feel offended! I loved my mother more than my life. She was my best friend and as I grew up I always wanted to be like her.
Paradoxically, I didn't cry because all the love. Or that's what I believe.
Yes, like all mothers she used to get into my nerves but all because she would, also, give her life for me and wanted me to be the best version of a human being I could possibly developt into. I owe her everything.
I was happy. My big latino family was happy; until one day almost five years ago a phone call would change my little nebula, and everybody's around it.
I was alone at work, and someone call me saying my mom was in some sort of "accident" and I needed to get to the airport. She was working in another city at the time. I called my aunts, they were also on their way, so instead I headed home first to get a suitcase with the basics and then I'd get a cab to the airport.
On the way home I was serene, I wasn't worried, all could repeat in my head was "It's going to be ok", all over again and again. I didn't care if she got burned, or all her bones broken, or had her legs apuntaded... as long as she was alive we would most definetly get our lives back. Happy and peachy again dead sure.
But when I got home my uncle phoned me, he was at the airport where some representative of my mom's job was waiting for us. He just said in tears: My love, your mother is dead.
I hung up and breathe violently in. I got paralyzed... even today I can't really describe a feeling I never had before. The rest of all my family were watching me expectantly in silence. My grandma cut the sage of doubt: She's dead, isn't she?
I just noded.
Everyone shouted.
Now that I recall all of it: **The death of my mother, as a momentum, is like a dark room inside my mind. A pitch black chamber only accesible through a single door, and any time I'd feel conquered by the past, I open the door and find myself screaming non-stop at the top of my lungs inside of it, forever. I take a deep breath and close the door again. **
This thought makes me feel better.
After the most dreafull reality check that could ever exist on anybody's life I found myself eyes wide open, both hands extended on the table palms down... just sitted there, looking to the floor. I could't cry. I wanted to; but I couldn't.
I have never written about this before. It's about time. Yes?
She's never told me, but I know my grandmother never forgave me for not crying. As odd as I migth be, still that's pretty damn f*cked up for a person, right? No?
Don't get me wrong, I sttill feel deeply sadden about my mother's death. I can't watch any loving-family-realted movies without crying my guts out... and that never happened to me before (years of horror movies watching practice had me pretty numbed).
Sad and still pissed... that's what I feel today; but stragely, at peace.
I've been thinking long and hard about why I couldn't weep that day five years ago. I don't know if I was in a state of shock, because I didn't lock myself in, I didn't mute for long, nor went away (mentally or physically). Reality call me back right away and I responded.
After I delivered (kind of) the gruesome news, my other uncle, who had a severe heart attack barely three months prior, shut his face in pain and grabbed his chest.
"Sh*t, son!", I thought. I couldn't alienate, it wasn't the time. I had a sense of responsability that binded me to take care of my family.
So I ran to the cabinet, grabbed an aspirine and shoved it down his throath, againts his will. No one's else was diying that day. I had to be strong. I still have to be strong, it doesn't come hard for me. It's in my nature, and it's fine. I am satisfied with it... in fact I wouldn't want it to be any differently.
In retrospective, I am very glad my mother was a woman on her own. She did what she wanted to do when she wanted to do it... better said when she felt it was right, and most of the time she was right. My mom didn't missed out of the glorious perks of life: she travelled, loved her work and was great at it, helped others, was a mother by choice, loved, lost and survived.
Most in accordance everybody loved her back. She was a hard woman with a giant heart. I like to think I inherit that very same peculiarity.
The hours passed and we were at the funeral service. It was AMAZING for me to meet all those people who knew my mother, it was astonishing, I was overwhelmed: all the friends, all the tears tied with laugther, all the memories. I had the tremendous joy of listening to those good things about my mom from all those different people; I was actually smiling through the piteous act of the funeral honors.
It was a bittersweet experience (cliché non-untended, but what the heck), my mother had to leave this realm for me to fully understand the backspin of her actions into other people's lives. I was happy and sad at the same time... I was the one hearten strangers.
I like to think death is a part of life, we can't scape from it and somehow that's not necessarily a bad thing. For the first time in my existence I couldn't do anyhting about the dreaful issue we were stepping in. There was nothing I could do to bring my mother back, to turn time back, to make things up.
I just settle and reluctantly accepted that my life was never gonna be the same. I just had to arrange everything over a tragedy... and move on. It sounds terrible, but from day one I had to move on. I don't know why, I just had to. I still have to.
Everyday I remember my mom, so many knowledge she left, so much inspiration.
I got to cry camly a few nights after... even every now and then I get o cry camly, missing her. Somehow I think she prepared me for that moment, I was ready to not be paralyzed by violent fear and sudden sorrow. I didn't feel alone, I had to be the one doing heardest thing: Accepting the unchangeable.
I got to yearn her company progressively, gently little by little; and not madly raging about the injustice of life.
That's all.
Am I wicked?