She

 

She is wearing all black today, with matching nail polish. Her trench coat leaves a trail behind her as she walks against the persistent wind. The rain is falling hard, and the umbrella that once protected me slowly disappears along with her until all I can see is a black speck through the heavy downpour. However, the rainfall is the least of my problems. After three blissful years together I just lost the one and only person who made my life worth living. I watch the end of her coat trail around the corner before I trudge into my house, drenching wet. An eerie silence fills the house; my dad is probably asleep again. It’s always the same routine everyday: work, cook, and sleep.

            Life has been different without my mom, do I ever miss her. Paper and scrap clutters the floor in the main hallway, none of it is mine; I’m never usually home. Why should I care of cleaning it up?  It is all of my fathers, and he is too lazy to do anything about this mess. The worse is in the kitchen were there are dirty dishes piled high on the table. It was only two years ago that that same table was clean and surrounded by my father, my mother and myself eating dinner together as a family. Two years ago was the last year where everyday I’d come home to a place full of life, surrounded by the tasteful aroma of my mother’s cooking. There was the noise of my dad watching the football game, and rooting on his favorite team, as my mom screamed back for him to calm down, and for once to help her in the kitchen. Two years ago, my last memories of her, hard to believe there was a time such as that.

 Life changed when a disease struck my mother. Having the most time on my hands, I found it my responsibility to help her live through her life, but how could I help her, if I couldn’t help myself. I was a lost teenager, unsure of what to do in my life, and where my passions lay. I lacked confidence, and in my mother’s dying illness, it became harder to find help in being the individual that I wanted to be.

            The dreaded day came when she was admitted into the hospital. Never did I imagine that I’d be spending a Christmas morning outside of my home in a hospital of all places and without my regular cheerful mother. Yet I was there, two years ago, gathering up my courage for what was ahead, while staring at an artificial Christmas tree and the surrounding colorful lights outlining the pale walls of the hospital lobby. 

            However, sitting in that lobby was a waste of my time; after seeing my mother in the state she was in, it became difficult to stop the tears crystallizing in my eyes.  There was no Christmas tree, nor any ornaments. There was just her, my mom, the only beautiful thing that existed in that room despite her fragile body.  “Her time is soon to come”, murmured my father, as he sat there beside her unwilling to let go of her frail hand. In other words, my mother found her destination after a long road trip. Her journey was over, and a new one was about to begin, without my father or myself. My mom was about to become the angel who made her presence on earth, to the angel now in her rightful place beside God.

            I spent that Christmas night in the hospital room that my mom stayed in, along with my dad who sat there beside my mother still clenching her hand, and unwilling to let go. In my own hand I clench my mom’s dying words, a poem written to my father and I. I must have read over it a hundred times, and each time I could hear her voice reciting the words, as if she was speaking to me through her comatose state:

Tonight when I lay my head down to sleep,

I may never wake to see the morning.

And when I have found my place beside the Lord,

Be happy for me, there shall be no mourning.

Live your life with joy, even without me.

And one day, once again we will be family.

            My mother always had an aura of hope around her, and she never stopped smiling until her dying breath. One day we will be family again, and I cannot wait until that day. But until it is complete, I must always live my life with joy, just as my mother always lived hers.

            Coming home to see all the clutter around the house never ceases to bring back the memories of my mother; no one but her could maintain that cleanliness in our home. The only area in the entire house that has not changed from two years ago is my room, a refuge from my past. It is there in my room I proceed to. Shutting the door behind me I notice the one and only existing possession in my room that represents change, my journal. It is in my journal where all of my deepest emotions are expressed and it is always there for me when there is no one else to console me. When I write poetry, there is no thinking I just let the words pour from my heart. When I am crying, I cry words; my tears are the ink of my pen. Like Edgar Allan Poe said, “with me poetry has never been a purpose, but a passion”. Being alone again, a new poem would soon be written in my journal, as a new chapter in my life is officially about to begin.

             I open my journal to one of many bookmarked pages; this one had hearts drawn all over it, surrounding a love sonnet. It’s of my high school crush, the first time where I experienced true deep feelings for another.  Four years later, and she still doesn’t know. That love still lingers in the back of my heart, even when I was with my girlfriend.  I heard once that true love is something that you continue to feel after it is felt, no matter the circumstances. Most importantly, true love is that which you don’t know why you feel, it’s just there; and this is exactly how I am feeling.

            It was four years ago when I was introduced to her. My friend told me I would find her cute, but it was more than that. She stood out like red on black, and every time I saw her, my heart would jump a beat, even while with my girlfriend. Where does this love stem from?   I was told once, that it is better to tell a girl your feelings early and risk completely embarrassing yourself, than to keep it inside as it continues to torture you. Four years later after my affection for her began to grow, the pain still runs deeper than the love. I lose touch of myself whenever I am around her. The shy individual within me is fully exposed when I hear her voice, and see her face. 

            In elementary school, people always treated me as if I was different because of my love for dark over bright colors and my awkward childhood where vampires and hell inspired me. Being different is especially significant to this girl, because for once, despite the fact that I do not know her as well, I have come to believe that I met someone who I could finally relate with. Every time I’d walk by her in the hallways there was something about her presence that made me contemplate. The way she smiled, it seemed unnatural, and it seemed that deep inside she was a very miserable and lonely person. She seemed to be someone who was lost in life, and needed that boost of confidence and someone to guide her. If that was the case, then I most definitely could relate with her.   So what of her, I ask. Do I feel for her just out of assumptions? If that is the case, then maybe I don’t deserve her.

            If any individual saw me sitting here contemplating and longing for this girl, they would think that I’ve gone insanely desperate, and they’d describe my secret infatuation as being creepy. However, that is not the case. To have a crush on someone is natural for a teenager like me. It’s a feeling that is easy to control, but hard to rid of once the affection begins to grow. Until I have told her, it will be hard to be relieved of my emotions.

            Moving the diary aside underneath my pillow, I lie on my bed too lethargic to do anything else. On my wall to the right is a copy of my mothers’ poem, the original being in my fathers’ room. Just like some people pray before they sleep, I recite my mom’s poem every night before I lie on my bed.

Tonight when I lay my head down to sleep, I may never wake to see the morning; Truth.

And when I have found my place beside the Lord, Be happy for me, there shall be no mourning; Faith.

 Live your life with joy, even without me, And one day, once again we will be family; Hope.

            That poem gives me hope when I most need it. When I see the poem I think of my mom, and through that I am ready to overcome any obstacle in my life, because as she said, always persevere.

            As I lie on my bed, the only noise I could hear is the rain pattering on my window, and the loud snoring of my dad in the room beside me. My eyes slowly close; the words of the poem echoing through my mind as if I could hear my mom reciting it. And I eventually fall asleep, my last brief thought being her, the girl I’ve always loved.