motherless daughters

or, how grief transformed me into love

The day she died was like my first day on earth, like I had just been born. Not reborn, like some pseudo phoenix rising from the ashes, but like I had never existed before hearing the words, “I’m sorry, she didn’t make it.” The first twenty-one years of my life, gone in an instant. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accurately describe how those first few seconds and then minutes felt, other than having a random hospital receptionist tell you over the phone that your mom is dead feels akin to being stabbed and also giving birth. I have never been stabbed, or given birth, but I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt as much as the utter devastation my body experienced that day. Because the thing about the early stages of grief is that it’s a wound to the soul. It pierces the heart first, and then attacks your other organs later. It’s a slow building pain with no rhyme or reason. It was the first real heartbreak I ever had, on October 27th, 2021.

With vivid clarity, I saw the world for the very first time, without her in it. It was dark, and deep, but I could finally see. Everyone around me moved at a molasses pace, as each word from their lips fell to the ground like the faint trickles of a dried up waterfall. It was overwhelming to be inundated by my own thoughts at every waking moment, but grief pulled me into the shadows and simply let me rest. It stroked a hand down my hair, told me, “Sleep, but with both eyes open.” And so I did, and never blinked. I waded through shallow waters, and found love on her twilight shores.