When you're dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.

One of my favorite memories of my mother never happened; at least, not in this dimension. The grief and heartbreak I feel constantly during the waking hours are dampened only by the dreams of her in her old red and black flannel shirt, smiling with her crooked and stained teeth. I always thought her teeth had character. She’s wearing her old plastic box-frame glasses – she hadn’t worn those in at least a decade. Color is in her cheeks, her eyes are bright. She looks so… healthy. I stare at her, trying to memorize this face and remove the ones that haunt me.



We are sitting on old lawn chairs – the kind that are cheap and made of tubes of gummy, interwoven plastic. We are on a deck; I can see blue sky all around me and clouds beneath that, but the scene is overtaken by the vibrant woman in front of me. She laughs; her quiet demeanor is outshone by her happiness. She hugs me; she tells me she loves me. We talk about everything; it is like we are old friends, just having a visit. I watch her smile begin to fade into sadness, and a furrow in her brow forms. I start to feel the pain throb deep within my chest.

“Oh, Mar,” she says, “I don’t want it to come back, I am so scared.”
I look into her eyes, and I see the one thing that this woman never showed her children, her husband, and her friends – fear.

“Mom, it’s not coming back. You were healed. By His stripes, you were healed!” I smile at her, scared myself, as I feel the familiar burning in the back of my throat. My eyelashes are wet, and I try to hold back the tears. I don’t want her to feel like she has a reason to be afraid. Her face breaks my heart; I want so badly to take away her pain.

“The cancer – it has come back before. We know it’s only a matter of time…” she lets her words trail off, avoiding the inevitable ending to the phrase.

“No, mama. No… I need you. I need you here. I need my mama, I’m just a baby.”

I beg her, I need her to stay. I have my life ahead of me! I am only twenty-four. I still need my mommy. I need someone to call when I have no answers; I need her soft comfort and touch when I’m sick, it’s better than any chicken noodle soup, any home remedy.

I watch her start to fade. Tears are in her eyes and she gives me one last long hug. I breathe in her scent. The smell of cigarette smoke and bar soap fills my lungs in a familiar way – but this time, it has a strange aftertaste. Metallic, almost like I am tasting loss.

“I miss you, Mar. I love you so much.”

All good things must end. I wake up, shaking. Sadness fills my whole body. I can feel it from my numb and shaky legs to the gaping hole in my chest, threatening to burst open. I have to hold my arms over myself to make sure that it doesn’t happen. That this brokenness doesn’t spill all over the bed.

I think about my mother – what an amazing force of a woman she was. We didn’t always get along, and we didn’t always see eye-to-eye on everything. We weren’t best friends, but we were close. She was the person I called when I screwed up. She was the only “favorite” saved in my phone. She was the only one who would love me, no matter what I did.

My mom never talked about dying or about the cancer. She was constantly optimistic – up until her last day. My dad told me two weeks ago that she was the bravest woman he ever knew, and I know this is true. She knew her God would heal her, and He did. Just not in this world. Perhaps my struggle for closure comes from the constant dreams –the memories of the dreams are more vibrant and easier to handle than the ones that actually happened. This dream in particular, she said the things I wanted to hear before she passed – but I knew she could not. It’s only been 12 weeks. I know the clichés, that the pain doesn’t ease, just gets less frequent. For now, I will look forward to these nights that I get to spend time with her. Regardless of the tears that soak my face and pillow when I wake up, the pain is worth it to feel her and see her – if only for a moment.

When something isn't worth it... just keep going.

What you don't know...

What you don't know, won't hurt me. But your words may. You don't know my life story. What formed me into this person. You don't know that I have been raped, molested and beaten. But that won't stop you from calling me names; names like "slut", "whore", or "cheater." You don't know that I never truly felt my father's love. So when I am quick to anger, or lash out inadvertently... you still presume you know me enough to gossip. You don't know that in the eighth grade, I was called fat for being a size 5 when my friends were 3. Or that I took birth control at age 14 for cramps, not sex. Or that my mother died of a cancer through which she suffered greatly. That she died only 3 months ago, and the hurt is very fresh. That I've had 7 friends commit suicide. And not "friends" like the people you pretend to know to get attention... genuine, caring friends who left a hole in my heart.

Instead of getting the facts, you enjoy your lies. You like the way gossip makes you feel. Like you are in control. But I don't know you, so I can't presume that's the reason. Perhaps you just gossip because you're a shallow, self-centered, ego-maniacal bitch... but what do I know?

Bandwagon!

Everyone's doing it... so I should, too!

And yes, if everyone jumped off a bridge, I probably would as well. Seeing as how the only reason I can think of for everyone to jump off of a bridge would be that we were being chased by rabid, man eating caterpillars or something similar.