R.B. Winters
R.B. Winters
Death, Mom, Opinion Leave a Comment

glass-exteriorThe persona of myself created in book pages is something I enjoy. So much so that it can be difficult to tell what is me and what is the character of my creation.

This has come to light more so in the last week with Mother’s Day arriving. A few friend’s reached out to ask if I was okay. I was. I am. My day was fine, I planted peas. My mom liked gardening, she usually had peas. So, these fire escape peas are for her.

My nephew said it best. “We’re all surprised you’re doing so well.” This is and is not a shock. I pride myself on being a strong person. Over the past decade I have played all sorts of mental gymnastics with myself in an effort to block certain feelings that I don’t want to experience. I’ve tried to break family cycles of emotion that I view as weak and wish desperately to avoid. Going so far as to distance myself and breaking down relationships that threaten my constructions. I’ve become so good at deconstructing that, as I said, I no longer really know if this is my behavior or if it’s the character I write in stories. Am I as strong as people tell me I am, or am I writing the story I want to remember?

When I’m alone it’s different. I’m not sad. Maybe a bit vacant, but not sad. I’ve been dreaming about her [Mom], it’s been enjoyable as it’s as close to creating new memories as we’ll ever come; even if it is just an illusion created by my overactive imagination. On the days the rain comes down warm I stop on the sidewalk and let it fall. People stare, it’s odd to stop and hold still, but it’s a sense I can’t describe and something almost outside yourself. Then there are the cool nights I walk up to the roof with a drink in hand. Standing, sometimes laying, on the edge of the building. Watching life move all around, six floors down. Nothing stopped and there’s no changing anything.

I’m fine, or the part of me repeating the words is fine. Perhaps it’s all still in process, but how envious I am of my siblings and their lack of responsibility in this situation and ability to wrap themselves in grief and implode.