Mother. Me.


“Write drunk, edit sober.” ~ Hemingway

Admittedly I choose to discount the second part of that. Yes, it is mid-afternoon and though I have been sober for at least five days, and PFFfffwwiiip!

and life just turns upside down again. Or right side up… After about ten(plus) messages to my Mother, thinking that I have again been given up and trying, so fucking trying, to process that yet again without hating everyone around me and wanting to swing at anyone I love or don’t know who crosses my path (Mike G, I sincerely apologize) knowing I have nothing to lose, tooth and nail, blood and bone and I will slice your life open and watch as it drains  out like mine has been seething for these years motherfucker because I always carry a knife… ahem.

Anyway, Her message is everything I needed to hear, and I still don’t know how to process it. “I’m sorry for being a bitch, a hermit, please don’t give up on me.” I never have, never will. I will rattle your fucking gravestone, Annie, I will have your ashes tattooed into my body, above my heart. Dig the needle deep and find my soul.

For the very first time, she said… My Mother said – “I love you. and I am sorry.” “I. Love. You.”, brought to me on a fucking voicemail message. It isn’t the way she needed to say it, it is what was said – and I am elated, I am lost. “Please don’t give up on me.” I found her. My Mother is not dead.

Only when you don’t know someone’s soul could they ever die. They last until the final memory that you have of them. If she passed tomorrow, a minute or hour from now, seconds from that message – she will never die.

I have still never met my Mother except for the brief moments inside of her body… but my clutch is with forgiving claws, and we will never be separated.

She loves me – and I always will love her.


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