Take Care Of Her

There are some moments in life that do not make sense until years later.

Not months later.

Years.

Long enough for life to hand you experiences that suddenly make old memories feel different.

Long enough for understanding to catch up.

Long enough for grief to change shape.

My brother passed away in 2014.

Sometimes that still feels strange to write.

Because grief does not really measure time the way calendars do.

Some losses stay close.

No matter how many years pass.

A couple years after he passed away, my mom and I decided to visit a medium.

Not because we knew what to expect.

Honestly, I do not think we did.

Part curiosity.

Part hope.

Part grief.

Part wanting answers to questions nobody really knows how to answer.

We intentionally gave nothing away.

No names.

No information.

No clues.

My mom stayed far enough away that she could not even be seen.

We wanted to know if any of it was real.

I walked inside.

She hugged me.

Not politely.

Not professionally.

Like she already knew me.

Like she had been waiting.

She told me my colors were beautiful.

She told me I was beautiful.

She asked if I was psychic.

I laughed.

"No."

"Why would I be here if I was?"

She smiled.

Then she said something I would think about for years.

"You have a gift."

"It is yours to figure out."

At the time, I brushed it off.

Now I am not so sure.

Then she stopped.

Looked away.

Almost distracted.

Then apologized.

"He is louder than everybody else."

I remember that.

Because what came next felt impossible to ignore.

Over.

And over.

And over.

The same message.

Take care of her.

Again.

Take care of her.

Again.

Take care of her.

Pointing toward where my mom sat.

A place she could not see.

Take care of her.

Please.

Take care of her.

At the time, I did not fully understand why it mattered so much.

I only knew it felt important.

Life has a strange way of explaining things later.

Years later came hospitals.

Caregiving.

Appointments.

Fear.

Responsibility.

Watching somebody you love struggle.

Watching somebody you love hurt.

Trying to help.

Trying to fix.

Trying to carry things that were never yours to carry.

Sometimes succeeding.

Sometimes failing.

Sometimes feeling responsible for outcomes that were never yours to control.

I think that was one of the hardest lessons.

Learning that loving someone and saving someone are not the same thing.

Because when you love somebody deeply, you want to make everything okay.

You want to carry their pain.

You want to protect them.

You want to fix what hurts.

But love is not control.

Love is presence.

Love is staying.

Love is showing up.

Love is answering the phone.

Love is sitting in hospital rooms.

Love is trying again tomorrow.

Even when today was hard.

Someone told me recently:

"You took care of your mom the way your mom wanted you to."

That stayed with me.

Because maybe that was the message all along.

Not save her.

Not fix her.

Not carry everything.

Just love her.

Just be there.

Just stay.

Pennies still find me.

Butterflies still find me.

Memories still find me.

People can believe whatever they want.

I only know what my life has felt like.

I only know what I experienced.

And I only know that years later, I finally understood.

Butterfly effect again.

I spent years trying to understand the message. Eventually I realized I had been living it.