DEAR MOM…

You liked it when I told you I’d started journaling. You always liked it when I wrote, always liked my writing. You’d say it reminded you of your younger self. We both hated it when my depression would take the lead and render me artistically useless. So when I told you I had made a 6-page entry on a new journal, you were as elated as I was scared. These were my deepest, most personal thoughts, being put on paper. I was anxious but you loved it. The writing, not the anxiety. We both hated that. 

I write today to recount to you an experience I had whose irony left me questioning alot. 

Remember that meeting we had someday back? That day you were too sick but still managed to get off your bed, lie on the couch  and address you children, remember? That day you asked Hellen and I to be good moms to our kids and asked Chris and Dan to take care of us? Remember when you said, “It’s not like I’m going anywhere, that’s not what I’m saying. But I might not be here for long and I’d really love it if you’d remember these things, long after I’m gone.” Remember mom?

Well, that was the day I made my last entry while you were still alive (Monday, 11th Sept, 4:46am), and the next entry after that just so happened to be notes from the first meeting with a grief support group I joined 2 months after you died.

Sigh… You die mom. The story ends. There’s no plot twist, no miracles, no testimonies. You die and leave us gasping for air. Despite that hopeful meeting, you breathe your last and life leaves your lungs.  Do you see that irony mom? Insane, right?

I have missed you every single moment since you rested. I have thought of you every day. I have grieved you in ways I don’t understand, through trips, through alcohol, through isolation, through questions and anger. I have tried to understand, I have tried to make peace, I have tried to accept the good that tends to visit occasionally. I have tried to ride through the waves of pain, through some of the most difficult days I have ever known. I’m not the best at asking for help, but even that I try to do, albeit occassionaly. I have tried. I’m still trying mom, but it gets hard sometimes.  

I hope you are happy. I hope they are making you your favorite weird kienyeji mbogas. You’d be pleased to know they are now drinking okra. Well, okra water, but…same thing. Not me though, I still maintain, that slime belongs to cows and goats. Above aaall else, I hope you are receiving all the love we send your way through our grief. Grief is love. And our grief runs deep, as deep as the depths of our love for you. 

Rest in eternal peace my love.