8 Years Later

You may or may not know,

My mother died 8 years ago.

5 days before christmas.

With no warning. 

She was 57 years old.

You may or may not know,

That grief is just a blanket that covers your body,

A coffin you’re trapped inside.

You may or may not know, 

That without that grief,

You are naked.

You are lost.

You are hollow.

You may or may not know,

My mother’s kindness.

And struggle.

My mother’s generosity.

And resilience.

You may or may not know,

Her goofiness, her awkwardness.

Her self-deprecating humor, 

That would put anyone at ease.

You may or may not know,

She taught me to be wild.

And trust myself.

And love my body.

And be whoever the fuck I want to be.

You may or may not know,

She was a teacher. 

A writer

An artist.

A survivor.

You may or may not know,

What it’s like to have your creative inspiration

Become your writer’s block.

Another coffin,

For another part of you.

You may or may not know my mom.

But if you know me,

You have seen her.

You have felt her.

You have learned from her ferocity.

Her brilliance.

Her defiance.

You have benefitted from her existence. 

I am hers and she is mine.

You may or may not know, 

The loss is still a burden.

But today, 

8 years to the day,

That grief is not a coffin I’m buried inside,

It’s a reminder from her

To live.

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