Since I Can't Call You...

I started writing my thoughts down, all jumbled and messy. They were really just reminders of the thoughts I was having that maybe I wanted to expand on in a post. When I got done with the prose from those thoughts, I looked back, and my messy, jumbled words looked like poetry. So, I kept it and made the prose into a poem that you will find following. Again, these are simply my journey of writing my lament and process - my grief and growth.

Hi mom!

I was just getting ready for bed tonight, putting in all the stuff that has now become my middle-age skin care routine. (By the way, remember when I said I would never do all of that!? Never say never, right!?) Anyway, somewhere between the toner and that last serum, I thought I should call and check on you.

And then I remembered…you’re not here.

It's happened a dozen times since Monday night. My mind and my heart seem to be on a delay, like they haven’t caught up with reality yet. The instinct to grab my phone is still so strong. The grief seems to hit in waves, but it also hits in habits.

I asked a friend today, “How long before that doesn’t happen anymore?”

The answer, while I had an inkling, wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

I still find myself almost texting PJ, and it’s been 8 years, and now I find myself reaching out to message you. You were the one I would call to ask how I should best care for Dad? Or if I was invading his space too much? You would know what to tell me right now.

Now who do I ask?

I know this is new grief…only days old. But I miss you, Mom.

So much.

“Take it one day at a time” is the thing we say to ourselves, to each other. But right now, even one day feels like it’s too much. Mone minutes at a time seems more appropriate. More honest, for sure.

 And the thing is, I know this. I walked/am still walking it. The pain from losing PJ still rides shotgun in my days. And now this? It feels like too much. Like too many goodbyes to carry in one heart.

I’ve always said the pain doesn’t get smaller; life just gets bigger around it. Right now that seems ridiculous. Because right now, it feels like the pain has swallowed the life that was supposed to grow around it.

And yet, I know it didn’t.

I know life will get bigger again. Even around this doubled grief.

 But even that brings its own ache because you won’t be here to see the life get bigger. To cheer us on. To say, “You got this!”

Mom, what do I do with all these tears? The ones that sneak up on my at the red lights, or that suddenly spill out at the grocery store, or on the pillow before I try to go to sleep. You should be the one I talk to about losing the two people I was, physically linked to like no others, and sorting out what that feels like. What does that mean?

The mantel of “family matriarch” is something we’ve already joked about (hi, my name is Stacy, and I’m a type-A event and holiday planner), but I don’t want that anymore – I just want you.

So, since I can’t call you, I’m writing all my words to you down right here.

Because I miss your voice.

Because I still have so much to say.

Because I want you to give PJ a hug for us.

And because I know, someday, I’ll see you again.

Since I Can’t Call You

I was just getting ready for bed
rubbing in serums I swore I'd never use.
Middle age has a way of sneaking up,
And so does grief.

The thought flickered: I should call you,
like a candle trying to stay lit.
And then
I remembered.
You're not here.

It’s happened dozens of times
since Monday night.
Like my soul forgot what my body knew.
That heart-habit of reaching for you…
a reflex with nowhere to land.

I asked today,
“When does that stop?”
But the answer sat heavy in the silence.

I just barely stopped myself from texting PJ,
and now
It's you.

You were the one I called
You always knew.
Now I don’t know who to ask.

I miss you.
Already.
Still.

“One day at a time,” they say.
But some days
one minute is a mountain.
And I know this ache
I’ve been walking its parallel path,
with PJ’s name carved in my chest.
But now it feels
like the road split in two
and I lost both halves.

I have learned to say,
“The pain doesn’t get smaller;
Life just gets bigger around it.”
But right now?
The pain feels enormous.
Like it swallowed life whole.

And yet…
I know it didn’t.
Somewhere deep down,
I know life will stretch again
around this doubled grief.
But you won’t be here to see it.
To clap from the sidelines.
To whisper,
“You got this.”

Mom,
what do I do with all these tears
that surprise me
in checkout lines
and traffic lights
and moments I should feel okay?

You should be the one I call
to ask how to live
With the ache of losing
The two people I was tied to
from the inside out.

We joked once
about me becoming the matriarch.
Hi, I’m Stacy,
Type-A holiday planner,
Reluctant torchbearer.
But I don’t want it.
Not yet.

I miss your voice.
So I wrote you this;
Since I can’t call.

Tell PJ we miss him.
Give him a hug.
And save me a seat
At the table.

Photo by Michal Biernat on Unsplash