The first October 11th I have been able to say that in five years. I don’t miss you any less, but perhaps I have come to understand more our new relationship.
I didn’t cry the day you died six years ago.
I wasn’t shocked. I knew what was coming. I knew the morning I finally went back to school after two weeks of missing my first college semester was my last with you.
And when my father called to tell me my aunt would pick me up from campus so I didn’t have to take the subway, I knew what had happened.
Tears never came, though I wished they had.
It rained the rest of the week. Tuesday through Saturday. Tuesdays mean something in my life. You gave me life on a Tuesday. My world changed, my childhood ended in 2001 on a Tuesday. You left me on a Tuesday.
How it rained! But my face remained dry. I comforted others at your wake. I stood with our family, your friends by your side as they said their goodbyes. I passed out tissues. I played cards with my friends.
It poured the morning of your funeral. I wrapped myself in the familiar comforts of the Catholic rituals and repeated what the priest told us to.
And then I stood with my sister and my father as he read the poem he wrote for you. The love of his life. The mother of his children. And I looked for you, and you weren’t there. The casket was closed, draped in a pure sheet of white, surrounded by flowers.
Sunflowers stood there, defiant against the rain outside, sunflowers that you loved, that my sister and I requested.
Rain began to pour from my face. I couldn’t see you anymore, and you were gone. I cried. My body wracked with my sobs. I had to grasp my sister for support as I left the church, arm in arm, onto the soaked pavement and into the incredible brightness of the Sun. The rains had left the skies and fell only on my cheeks.
You were so loved, Mom, the world wept for you until I was able.
