Momma

I think one of the hardest things to understand is how people can love each other so much and still end up far apart.

Not because they stopped caring.

Just because life kept happening.

Years kept passing.

Circumstances kept changing.

And somewhere along the way, two people who once knew everything about each other slowly stopped knowing the details of each other's lives.

I think that is a kind of grief people do not talk about enough.

Not death.

Not breakups.

Not losing someone completely.

Something quieter.

Something harder to explain.

The grief of remembering what once existed while trying to understand where it went.

The grief of missing someone who is still here.

The grief of carrying memories that still feel alive while the relationship they belong to feels different than it once did.

I think about that a lot lately.

Momma.

You knew everything.

Not in a dramatic way.

In the ordinary way only mothers know their children.

You knew what scared me.

You knew what made me laugh.

You knew when I was anxious before I said a word.

You knew when I was hurting.

You knew when I was excited.

You knew how much I cherised you.

You knew how much you mattered to me.

You knew losing you terrified me.

You knew goodbye mattered.

You knew all of it.

Maybe that is why I still struggle to understand this.

Because if anyone should understand why this hurts, it would be you.

The older I get, the more I see pieces of you inside my soul.

People always told me I was like you.

Now I actually understand it.

We are so much alike.

The way I walk, talk, think, laugh, etc.

Its just like you.

But semi different.

That was always part of what made our relationship special.

We could frustrate each other.

Disagree with each other.

Drive each other crazy.

And somehow still love each other through all of it.

We all had eachother's back.

That's what our family has always been about.

Even the little things connected us.

We have a mole in the exact same spot on our wrists.

The exact same spot.

Such a tiny thing.

But I tell everyone that.

It felt like one more reminder that I belonged to you.

One more reminder that part of you would always exist with me.

When I was a baby, I couldn't say "I love you."

At least not correctly.

Instead, I said Keku.

And somehow it stuck.

Years passed.

Life changed.

I grew up.

But Keku never disappeared.

We still said it.

A word nobody else understood.

A word that carried an entire childhood inside it.

A word that meant safety.

A word that meant comfort.

A word that meant home.

A word that meant you.

I adore it so much that I had it tattooed on my wrist.

Not because it was a perfect word.

Because it was ours.

Because every time I looked at it, I remembered a little girl who loved her mom so much she invented her own language to tell her.

I remember showing you the tattoo.

Part of me thought you would be more excited than you were.

Maybe because I was not really showing you a tattoo.

I was showing you a memory.

A piece of us.

A piece of when I was your little baby.

The tattoo has faded a little now.

It could probably use some touching up.

But the meaning never faded.

Not for me.

What I struggle with most is the goodbye that never happened.

Or maybe the goodbye I never got.

You need to do what is best for you.

And I need my own life.

I understand that.

What I do not understand is how somebody who knew me better than anyone else on this planet do leave without wanting to see me one last time.

After all this time knowing I still have the same panic attacks when you travel even a couple of hours away.

Because that has still never gone away.

You told me you were never coming back to Ohio.

Not someday.

Not eventually.

Not for visits.

You said you were not coming back.

That broke me into a million pieces.

Because I knew what that meant.

I knew it was the end of a chapter.

A chapter that held my childhood.

A chapter that held every family memory possible.

Hugs.

Conversations.

Laughter.

Memories.

Ordinary moments that become priceless once they are gone.

You knew I no longer had the car.

You knew I could not simply drive down and see you.

You knew there was a very real possibility that if you left, I might never get another chance.

And still there was no goodbye.

No final hug.

No final visit.

No final memory.

Nothing.

That is the part my heart keeps returning to.

Not because I am angry.

Because I genuinely do not understand.

I keep replaying it because it feels impossible.

Because if our places had been reversed, I would have moved mountains for one last hug.

One last conversation.

One last memory.

One last chance to say I love you.

Maybe that is what I have been grieving all along.

Not just distance.

Not just change.

The absence of an ending.

Because when somebody leaves without one, part of you keeps waiting.

Part of you keeps believing there will be another chance.

Another conversation.

Another visit.

Another hug.

I can't just show up on my day off just to hang out.

What if I need you? What if you need me?

I've been really depressed since you left.

I was hoping you would get my flowers I sent so I knew you were still here.

If you were, I planned on getting to you as fast as I could.

Someway, somehow. Just to hug you.

But instead - when that ending you thought you would get never comes, you are left carrying questions that have nowhere to go.

I do not write this because I stopped loving you.

I write this because I never did.

I never will.

I still remember everything.

How could I not?

The laughter.

The memories.

The feeling of being known.

The feeling of being loved.

The feeling of home.

I thought the hardest part would be saying goodbye. The hardest part was never getting the chance.

......Keku