Stone

I told myself I would go to the cemetery on Monday . . . Tuesday . . . possibly today.  But I just can't . . . not anymore. 

Because I've said my good-byes . . . many times. There are no more. 

So talking to a stone, sitting in front of it, tracing the outline of your name . . .  

It no longer feels necessary.

But feeling connected to you is necessary. 

So incredibly necessary.

And I wish I knew how to do that. 

I heard a character on show say once:

it's not us that haunt you, it is humans who haunt us.

Maybe that's true . . . not wanting to let go. Not knowing how. 

But maybe that's what needs to happen, for everyone. For you. For me. 

For peace. 

Because, some days, there is no peace. I'm too caught up in should've, could've, but no would've. Not anymore.

Can't make amends to the dead.

So I feel drawn to sit in front of stone, tracing the words. 

Your name.

Hoping to feel closer to you.

To hear your voice again.

But again, useless wishes of the living. 

You're no longer there.

Or here.

An unnecessary wish for closure.

All that is needed is forgiveness.

You granted it. I granted it to you.

Maybe now I'll fully grant it to myself.

I feel you sometimes. It amazes me how solid a memory can become. 

A ghost of flesh and blood. But not. 

It's only me filling out the void and giving it shape. 

But it's no longer necessary to kneel in front of a stone and sob for you.

For what is no longer there.

But you are still here . . . .in a new way. 

In my thoughts, memories, parenting, daughters.

So maybe I'll sit in front of stone tomorrow, even if unnecessary.

And I'll allow myself to cry . . . for me.

You no longer need my tears.

But I need them. 

Even after all this time.

The cleansing . . . leading to more forgiveness.

More moving on. 

And I'll trace your name one more time.

And wipe my eyes and stand up.

And realize, finally, I was never saying I was sorry to you.

You no longer needed it.

I was apologizing to myself. 

And learning to be okay . . . 

 . . . without you.

And knowing it's what you wanted all along when you looked at me, one last time and said:

"Be good to yourself, Shelly. You'll be okay"

Yes, Mom, I will be.

And I am. 

Almost. More than I was.

And that is enough for now.