It’s been too long since I’ve written a poem, but since I struggle to find the right words to describe how I’m exactly feeling I’ll share one:
No One to Blame
The closer to my dreams,
the farther that you seem.
The moments of undeniable terror,
remind me we were quite the pair.
The sunset that takes my breath,
flashes memories of your death.
An ending to a beginning,
the hopeful start of living.
The happy memories trigger
that the little things are much bigger.
Than the dark clouds that linger,
spreading poison from a stinger.
Today will be good.
Tomorrow very well could.
There’s no one to blame.
Yesterday can’t be tamed.
Every year near the anniversary of my mother’s death my goal has been to write a blog about how I’m feeling or what I remember most about my mom and the lessons I learned in the time we shared. I always want to remember her for the good, bad and the ugly. I don’t want to miss a single thing. And sometimes memories come and go. It’s amazing when I can remember something or I am told a story I never knew about my mom.
I knew about platelet counts and red/white blood cells before I even knew about having a crush on a boy. My world perspective was different than what people predominantly hope for their children. I’m certain my mother would have rather not had to keep me in the loop about her leukemia. I’m certain she would have much rather enjoyed Dairy Queen ice cream cakes instead of pushing chemicals into her veins. I’m certain she would have rather laughed a little longer in the sunshine instead of trying to break a frown laying in a hospital bed only dreaming of fresh air.
And I’ve never tried to compare my grief to other’s, because every situation is not created equal. But for me. There’s not someone to blame. There’s not someone to hate for why my mother got cancer. It was genes. It was by chance. It was life. There isn’t really an answer I’ve ever gotten that has been satisfying. For someone who is grieving the loss of a parent who is murdered, there is that ability to hold someone responsible. And to get justice for it. To put them on trial. And to seek some sort of closure. But I can’t put cancer on trial. I can’t ask why it invaded her blood. Why she was the one to die so young when so many “bad apples” die so late. There’s so many possibilities I could test. So many philosophies to challenge. I could turn to a spiritual belief. I could turn to a scientific cause.
But it’s not good enough.
I spend time in my classes trying to understand the question “why” about so many other tragedies, but the one I really want to solve is my own. And all these years later I still find myself hitting a wall. And the older I get the more I think I’ll have these experiences that will give me some sort of epiphany and finally be free from my hunt for “why”.
And it’s only natural for me to want to know why. Secretly I do. But it’s easy to shove those unsolvable questions to the bottom and not think about them. But every once in a while it resurfaces and I’m stuck battling my brain. Because realistically I believe that I won’t ever reach a satisfying answer. And I believe that this experience has meant to test and humble me. But I can’t help but think why the death of my mother had to be my great challenge. And at other times I think I already know the answer and I’m content without her. But those feelings fluctuate and there is really no easy way around it.
And so on those days I turn to my sister. Who is the only other person in this world who understands at least a sliver of how I feel. And I thank my lucky stars that I’m not the only one in the dark.