Her life was a snowstorm; while the rest of us relied on oxygen to breathe she could not cope without inhaling a constant supply of that damnable white powder. It slid down her nasal passages, snaked its way through her veins and made a home of her habit- gradually evicting her health, her children and, eventually, her sanity.
When my mother told me to pack my bags, I knew it was only because she had done one too many bags. With vehemence in dilated eyes she fallaciously lamented how it was my very existence that had deprived her of her role as a mother in our lives.
I long for her to take an honest look in the mirror, but these days the closest she gets to that is when her reflection stares back at her widened nostrils, the straw cut as short as the one she dealt us.
Her life has become an illusion, and I have watched her disappear.
You cannot leave; you were never there.
You told us we were but borrowed from the Earth, and that we did not belong to you…
Nor did you belong to us.
But I felt you to be mine; through butterfly kisses and Tiny Bubbles, to broken chests that filled with smoke and breathed out the emptiness of a directionless existence…
“The Total Acceptance of What Is”, you preached, and so accept I do; of everything and everyone, to Love is all I live to do. Yet I cannot live up to my namesake, for in return Beloved I am not -although you Christened me so.
We are all fleeting.
It is all I have known. It is all I have become. And although in body you exist, your spirit has long since abandoned me.
What was has died. And with it, a part of me.
Our music has stilled.
But I will always be a part of you.
I hope one day, you Remember.
I hope by then, I have Forgotten.
It is not my fault that you are gone. It IS my fault for not realising that you were not going to stay.
It Is My Fault for overlooking your emotional decline, as if my helplessness regarding your hopelessness was a validation for the way in which I handled your statement of depression. I, always so abundant in advice for those I care about, found when your tongue stalled mine stilled. In your silence there was a hunger for the words that I did not have.
It Is My Fault for the immoralities in which I have excessively indulged, for the vices that we would unite over and the manner in which they obliterated the memories of your every profession. In your absence my thoughts have sobered, and I have been left to reflect upon what I have now come to know was truly your confession.
It Is My Fault for allowing the anxiety that ticks in my head like the hands of a clock to convince me there was no time for a farewell, because there would always be time for another hello. The uncharacteristic keenness you displayed should have served as an alarm, yet my apprehension was the only thing I allowed myself to pay heed to… The loss of you has detonated with more force than any fear ever could have.
It Is My Fault for blithely accepting your response to my query; you were a puzzle I was too ashamed to admit I could not solve. What you presented was a perfectly coloured side of a Rubik’s Cube, and although I could sense the angles you did not display were a mangled mess aching to be resolved I did not know how to align the rest of you without disrupting the best of you.
It Is Not My Fault that you are gone, but It Is My Fault for not recognising that you weren’t going to stay. As you journeyed to your final destination, you left a trail of breadcrumbs in your wake –and now, I’m choking on them.