(I’m sorry this is so long, but the length is very necessary)
The last time my mother wiped a tear of mine, it was eleven o’clock at night.
I felt a shudder curl up my spine as I felt her warm fingertips trace my cheek, removing the moisture, extracting the sadness, if only for a moment. I looked up at her and felt myself collapse into her comfort. She stroked my head and shushed, hushing my whimpers and increasing the frequency of my tears. She offered advice, though I didn’t care for it. I only wanted her presence.
It’s funny how things like heartbreak can make you yearn for your mother.
I recall hating her that night, because I needed her so much. I remember resenting the words she spoke with every fiber of my being, rejecting them, soaking them in remorse. Yet, I didn’t want her to leave my side. There was nothing on the planet that could make me feel better. Nothing except him, and I knew that wasn’t going to happen. So I resigned, and took her in. Her soft skin, her soothing voice, her embrace, especially made for situations like this.
I felt myself gasping for air a lot of that night. I barely slept, and when I did, I seemed to skip right into REM. I took advantage of my subconscious, exploiting its creative juices for every ounce of memory and fantasy it could produce. I clung to myself. I didn’t want to wake up, and when I did, I felt like a part of me stayed in that bed, refusing to get up. I burned with envy. I wanted to stay, too.
And so it was for days, weeks, months. I hated time. I hated clocks.
I moved in slow motion while everyone sped through their lives. I would stare clocks down, willing them to stop. How dare they go on? My entire world had halted, and there they were, laughing. Making a mockery out of the fact that there was nothing I could do about this. There was no part about it that I could control. Snarling at the the thing in my chest that weighed me down no matter what I tried to do about it.
Seeing him was surreal. I didn’t understand, and my body came to this realization slower than I did. Every time we met, my face inclined towards his, expectant. His hugs tore me apart, because there was nothing I wanted more than to stay in his embrace. All I did was cry and think about him. I didn’t enjoy most of my year. I was a robot throughout band and guard. I kept my eyes and ears peeled for him. I didn’t care about anything else. I didn’t think it would ever pass.
Slowly, my own motion sped up. The weight persisted, but each step I took towards moving on alleviated it ever so slightly. I wasn’t myself, but at least I wasn’t crying every other period. I didn’t want anyone else, but my yearning for him lessened. I still wasn’t able to hold a regular conversation with him. There were still nights where the feeling snuck up on me and attacked me for all I was worth. But I kept moving, and going, hoping that the more time that passed, the less I would love him. The less I would care. The easier it was to voice his name.
The school year was coming to a close, and still, I wasn’t all that okay. The difference in my personality was potent, and my friends missed me. They asked me if I was okay all the time. They expected me to just be okay. I hated them all for it. I didn’t think they understood. I didn’t realize they were concerned, for all I heard were shoves towards my old self, and I just couldn’t do that. I didn’t know who my old self was, anymore. I didn’t want to be her, because she wantedhim. So I shunned them and clung to the only person that stuck around.
Eventually, all his clothes was booted out of my house.
His name was hardly spoken. Everyone pretended he had never existed, and I pretended I was okay with that. The summer began, and as flowers bloomed and the sun rose, I began to do the same. I emerged as a new person. Less naive, less frantic, less able to fall in love. I smiled for different reasons, and for smaller things. I looked forward to things more than I ever had before, and I valued my friends. I didn’t want to fall in love anymore. I didn’t think it was possible. I didn’t think there was anyone that could make me feel the way that he did, and I didn’t care for that kind of thing anyway. That pain - that numbness - it wasn’t anything I was eager to relive. Not ever. Not for anyone.
And then, one day, something different snuck up on me.
It was a boy, this time. It was weird to be interested in him.
I hadn’t given any other a guy a second look since - well, you know.
My interest in him surprised me, even. He wasn’t any of the things I was usually drawn to, but his smile drove me up the wall. We spoke, and we didn’t flirt. I wasn’t coy, and he wasn’t sneaky or complimentary. We just spoke, as simply as we were just any other person, and I guess at that instant, we were.
Still, I was attracted. I wanted to talk to him more. I wanted to know what was going on inside that insanely handsome head. And so we did. The opportunity found itself, and we were on a golf-course, discussing other things. Skip an hour or two, and we were having and adventure, and for the first time in a long time, I felt ridiculously alive. He reawakened me. Just hearing him talk was something I looked forward to. I didn’t realize it then, but I would fall for him harder than anyone before him. He captivated me without intending it, and before I knew it, I fell asleep with him as though he was someone I’d known my entire life.
A day or so later, we laid in a bed and stared at the ceiling. I don’t remember, but I don’t think we were close in proximity. We just lay, and as we did, we spoke some more. I’ve never heard someone be so honest with me from the very beginning. He was open, and spoke without an ounce of reserve, like he didn’t care. He said things I never expected to hear straight from a boy’s mouth and, as he did, he wove a great body of comfort in my head and in my heart (an ability that he unwittingly keeps until this very day). I was still scared. I was so tentative. I remembered the pain, and I didn’t wanted to feel it again but - but he made none of that matter. And when I kissed him for the first time, it was earnest. It wasn’t a sexual kiss, it wasn’t a showy kiss. It was earnest. With it, I hoped to let him know just how much I was trusting him, and I did. I trusted him, and he’s never given me a reason to regret that decision.
He’s the reason I sing cheesy love songs.
He’s the person I would write long, elaborate epics for, were it his heart’s desire.
He’s the one that makes pain seem bearable, so long as I get to hold him for now.
He’s the one who’s loved me the most with the least questions.
Most importantly, he is the person that has robbed my mother of ever having the opportunity to take care of me like that again.
-moomarimeow