What Remains

You want me to speak on loss? About what remains when the person who carried you fades away?

Cells. The fact that her DNA now only lives in my brain. I mean, sure, she lives on in my sisters, but what will I have left when they’re gone, too?

Because it seems as if it’s the season for it, death, I mean.

It’s been picking away at pieces of who I was yesterday, leaving me with nothing for who I am today.

Nothing, that’s what remains.

An irreversible chasm of longing, a purging of hope, a deep dive into despair.

And all I can think about is that stupid ball of grief, and the fact that it just won’t stop pushing that button. The one that incites the screaming.

That once pressed, forces me to erupt, that leaves me breathless and smoldering all at once.

Because I didn’t just lose you, Mom, I lost myself. The thing that made me, me. And you made me, so who could I possibly be without you?

How am I supposed to figure it out without you? You were the one who accepted all my questions, gave me more than just answers – our conversations gave me purpose.

They propelled me further into knowledge that I would just drop at your feet for you to rub your toes in, for you to taste and tell me…something.

And I find myself on my knees, keening. Wailing, waiting for you to peek out of the door from the other side to tell me everything is fine.

But it isn’t.

What’s left behind?

It’s me. You left me. I’m what’s left behind now that you’ve gone.

You want me to talk about what I’ve lost?

I lost it all.