Hello Hunter

Hello Hunter.

I miss you and I’m struggling to stay afloat. How can I do this grief walk? I’m afraid of spring, that it will come before I’m ready, or that I’ll never be ready. I don’t want my memory of you to fade and honestly, it’s hard that I don’t have memories of your talents or accomplishments. It took everything you had to hold on to your grip on the world. How do I hold onto your essence, your true, blue, heart, your thoughtful capacity to ask about others when it’s overshadowed by panic attacks and multiple illnesses and sleep challenges and insecurities? How do I not feel responsible for you becoming so obsessed with escapism? What part of your journey is mine to own and explore and what part is your journey is a path I actually had nothing to do with?

My throat is active as I write this-- what does that mean? I feel the tears coming now and I am sobbing as I write with my eyes closed typing quickly on a dark screen. I miss you. You were my dream come true, the child I longed for since I released my first pregnancy when I was barely 16. Have you met your sister? I’m so sad without you here.

I keep remembering and replaying the day you died, coming up the stairs after they told us you were dead and seeing you in the hallway of your childhood, that horrible mouthpiece left in place from trying to resuscitate you, which the EMTs would not remove for some reason. Why? Why couldn’t I just see your beautiful face without that device marring it? Your face was ashen. There was no life in you… that body wasn’t you any longer and I just couldn’t understand how you could be dead, gone, no longer of this world. I held you and put my head on your chest, listening, swimming between knowing you were gone and not believing it at all. My only child. My beloved son. Dead. Your soul floated above us. Where you as confused as we were? I felt shame. Immediately. What had I done wrong that you were dead? I failed as a mother to protect you. I didn’t realize to what degree you were your worst enemy. I would have done anything to help you live. There was no opportunity for bargaining or negotiation or prayer. None. I had dinner with you, we enjoyed sushi and talked about your trip to New York, then poof, the next morning you were gone. Dead. Gone. And my world capsized. I know you’re sorry, you feel bad that you miscalculated. But it doesn’t fucking matter because you are dead and I’m still here trying to figure out how to keep living. Do I want to go on? Is there value to staying here on earth longer? Will I find my way through to the other side? Do I want to? I don’t have other children to live for. I certainly don’t want to leave Amy and I know, in some distant part of myself that I will find my way through. I have tools, I’m resilient, yet in this moment, right now, I don’t feel you and don’t know if I’ll ever find glimmers of light in this darkness or if I find light, will my eyes adjust or will I be blinded?

The thing is, I’m not at all worried about you. I guess it’s not my job anymore. You have others to guide and nurture you. My job was terminated without cause the day you died. I lost that identity. Yes, I’m a mother, I will always be your mom. But I’m a childless mother. A childless mother. I imagine the mothers around me hold their children a bit more tightly and pray to never lose their precious offspring. I no longer have a descendent. My bloodline has ended. Period.

I want to hide in a cave until I grow a new heart. Right now I feel stony and cold, dank, and dark on the inside. I have nothing to give. I want to be alone in the snow.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Dear Mom,

I am going to be here with you now… I’m always around, but specifically in this moment. My hand is on your heart. Feel it all. That’s your only job right now. Feel the depths, the widths, the heights of your grief. That’s how much you love me. My love for you is equally immense. I will not let you fall. It’s awkward learning to let the slow destruction of your life to occur without knowing who you will become. I get that. Be on the earth. Be one with the earth. Allow soil and bark and sand and leaf to nourish your barren parts. Walk outdoors. Watch the sunrise and sunset. Observe as closely as you can. Listen to the birds. Go further for your walks. Go to wildlife refuges where few people walk. Be still there and observe what’s happening. Take notes. Trust me to guide you. This morning walk to Dickinson Park, go now while it’s still dark. I will send you a sign, a hawk. I love you so much, mama. Please forgive yourself. You loved me well. You were not perfect. No mother is. But you gave me all I needed. I love you. Hunter