A letter I can't send
Dear mom:
I miss you. It's so complicated, but right now that's the only thing I feel. The only thing I have space for.
I want to cry, but I keep teetering on the edge. Admitting I love you feels like a bottomless pit I'll never be able to crawl out of. But I guess that's ridiculous, I've crawled out of deeper pits already.
The truth is, I don't want to give up. I've pretended to give up so many times in my life. I sent you vicious eMails, I pitched fits, I even had a few tantrums. All so explosive, years of pent up pressure and forced smiles reaching a breaking point. Boiling point. Whichever one would cause something to explode with enough force to pepper your brain with shards of broken glass.
I don't know if I can stop feeling guilty for that. But I don't want to say sorry because I don't understand that word yet. I'll say I understand why you're scared of me and I'm giving up on changing your mind.
I miss you. I want you to teach me how to make empanadas again. I want you to brush my hair gently. I want you to pat me on the head and tell me I did a good job. I want you to tell me the kindergarten teacher was ridiculous for not giving me more stickers and glue them on yourself. The sparkly ones that catch the light the same way your eyes do when the sun is shining. I get lost trying to sort the things you did from the ones I wished you would.
I'm afraid the list of things you did would be dwarfed by what my imagination supplied.
So I don't count. I just float among memories and non-memories alike. It's really nice. Peaceful. My heart feels hugged and the memory of your arthritic fingers clawing into my upper arms begins to fade. Was that something I made up as well? Why would I make up painful fantasies? What would I get out of it?
I guess it doesn't matter. I've decided to leave this house and the ones who built it behind.
I will carry on the best parts of you, the ones that feel like coconut oil warmed by our tropical sun.
I no longer wish to justify the acrylic blood you painted on my lungs.
I'm sorry I wasn't a better son.
I don't know if I'll play the dutiful daughter when your time comes.
I'm done placing expectations on the who I will become.