Grief

When I heard that you weren't coming home from the hospital, all I could think about is the day you took me out on a trip. We got ice cream and went to the local thrift shop where we got this brown and black stuffed animal. I was four and I named him Jupiter. He was our "son" and we took turns every week taking care of him. I though about how you took a left turn down the road.

"Sissy," you said. Though, I can't remember what came next. I remember you were wearing gray shorts and a black v-neck shirt that day. With sandals. Because it was the middle of summer. We drove grandpa's truck. I was ten before I ever got rid of that bear and when I did, I hadn't done it on purpose. The coyotes in our back yard tore into it when I left it outside.

I thought about the time we drove grandpa's truck down the road and I accidentally grabbed the stearing wheel to adjust my butt in the center seat. "Don't grab that!" You screamed at me, afraid for us both. I stopped talking that day.

I remember my body had slammed to the ground the day they took you off life support. I couldn't hold myself up anymore. My best friend, my grandmother, the woman who raised me more than my own parents, was gone. You were gone and I couldn't reach you anymore. You were gone and the last words you said to me were that you were disappointed in me because I wasn't living up to who you knew I could be.

Now I'll never know if I've made you proud. I'll never know if I fixed that. I miss you, Mama.