Member-only story
November 15th 2010
It comes in splashes. The things I remember from 10 years ago. Incoherent bubbles of thought that overtake a solid moment and make it hard to breathe. The echoes of that day are something I have a feeling are going to haunt me for the rest of my life. Memories that are easier said to shake off than actually done.
My sister’s stupid “Live Forever” ringtone. My cousins perfect basketball baby bump. My sister sitting in the drivers seat questioning how to tell the kids. The incessant beeping of hospital machines. The soft voices of the nurses that made me so angry.
They’re flashes of that weekend.
That chilly Saturday afternoon getting out of my ASL class and going rollerblading with those perfect, vicarious and clumsy kids. The high school musical giggles. Listening to the Jonas Brothers. Pure oblivious bliss.
We had no real clue in that moment that the entire world was crumbling into unfixable pieces.
She was my mom.
My mama, my sunshine, my puzzle piece.
She was supposed to be there when I graduated from college, when I met a boy, when I figured out my mess of a life. I was supposed to be able to run to her with questions and confusion, everything that goes along with growing up.
