On Turning Two

Reflecting on hitting Year Two since mom died, in the form of a letter to her.

Yes you did, Cierra. ♥

The day before you died, you told the palliative care doctor that you just wanted to be here for your family, but I don’t quite understand why.

Well, maybe now I do, knowing where we were at the time and having a better understanding of who you were.

You were someone drenched in anxiety. You wanted nothing bad to happen to any of us, so you kept us in place with a shackle so strong, you began to believe it was normal.

But I look at me now. Us, that are still walking this earth, and see how far we can go when we’re finally allowed to walk into the world without your fear stopping us in our tracks.

It makes me sad for what could’ve been. But I always immediately snap myself out of those daydreams of you and me because I know our reality.

My life now never would’ve existed if you were still in it as heavily as you were.

Sometimes I wonder how I could have pushed back harder after our fights about me finally not being your caregiver anymore. We both wanted it, and I wonder if you would’ve done better and still have been here if I had finally stopped being so intimately involved with you.

Someone new needed to break the pattern and curse over our lives, but that never happened. Your death happened instead.

Are you still around? I have theories. I still think it was you and grandpa who visited me as hummingbirds right after grandpa died last year.

I had only seen hummingbirds one other time in my life, and I have never seen one again since you both passed.

I think you were that butterfly in Texas that walked up to my finger and refused to fly away.

Maybe, most recently, you were the stingray at the zoo who settled into the sand in front of me and my boyfriend for several minutes while all the others zoomed around the shallow petting pool.

Before you left that spot, you flapped yourself up against the wall and let us pet you.

I hope you loved my boyfriend as much as I love him.

The world astonishes me in its minor cruelties since you’ve been gone, too.

I got you the Buddy rainbow layered cake you had been wanting to try for a couple of years, but it shipped too late; about a week after you died.

Do you know how many places I can now find that cake?! Ridiculous.

The Korean fried chicken I kept raving about when I went to South Korea? There’s a place not too far that has the best one I’ve had since being back in the States, and I wish you could try it so I could see if you liked it.

I miss having someone here to try things I cook.

That’s oddly been one of the hardest parts for me: not being able to fix the food you loved. Not having someone I can immediately share new foods with.

Speaking of food, guess what else? They’re supposed to be bringing ChiChi’s back next year!!

We had spent over a decade trying different restaurants’ chimichangas, and they never hit the way ChiChi’s did. I was almost too young to remember the restaurant myself, but you’d tell me all the time how much you missed their food.

And now it’s coming back when you can no longer have it.

What a cruel world.

Have you seen my kindergarten teacher, wherever you are? We all loved her; I found out she died last year.

I found so many art projects and writings I did in elementary school, including this book I wrote. Mrs. K wrote on a sticky note apple for me to, “Keep writing.”

Look at me go! :)

Time is blurring as I turn two today. Turning one without you held so much significance because I was comparing it to the year before, leading up to when I lost you. To me, I went from a little girl and a shadow of a person, to having to learn how to grow into my own being these past two years.

Before you died, I didn’t resonate with being called a woman at all. Even when I was in my 30s, I’d literally cringe in painful disgust.

But now I wear the identity of “woman” like it’s been a part of me all my life. It feels right. Like it was made for me.

Even with me growing into womanhood, I’ve still turned to dad for so much guidance when it comes to navigating life as a young adult.

Insurance, investing, choosing a job…

When you first died, I was SO anxious about only having one parent left and having no clue how to live life like a young adult when I wasn’t even a young adult anymore.

But everything dad teaches me, I wonder what you would’ve said if you were still here. I wouldn’t be living this life for you to give me advice for if you were still here, and that’s frustrating.

It still frustrates me that I get to grow and become my own person, after you’ve died. Why couldn’t I have started a lot of this sooner? So you could’ve been around for all my milestones?

Knowing where we were, I know that’s not what our lives would’ve ever gotten to unless something drastically changed… I suppose it was you leaving us.

I still feel relieved that you left us, considering the state you were in. But grief has been weird. I still vent about you a lot. I randomly say “mama…” a lot, and for no reason at all.

It’s been months and months since I’ve had a dream with you in it that made me so angry that it woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep.

I’ve had random, casual dreams with you in them sometimes, and I wake up feeling fine.

But I did have my first public meltdown this year over you.

I’ve begun writing a book about you, and us, and how I’ve grown because of, and despite you.

I think it can be a life-changing book, and will help you live on when I personally feel like so much of your life and potential was wasted and can be so easily washed away…

Most things you’ve touched feels so temporary… We’re no longer in the apartment you decorated, I’ve totaled the car you drove, we’ve sold many of the decorations you’ve bought and made… I have a few pins and pieces of jewelry from you that I’ve never even seen you wear.

It feels like nothing left on this earth significantly ties you here, and I hate that.

I have pleasant memories of you, but so many bad ones overshadow them.

I say it all the time but, you didn’t die in vain. That’s where this book comes in.

It’ll be a taxing lab or of love, but I imagine I may have more breakdowns as I write it.

I now understand what memoirsts mean when they talk about the emotional labor when writing about past, hard events.

But I think it’ll be one of the most important projects I’ll ever do.

You left us two years ago on this day, and SO much has changed because of it.

I got my license last year, I did online dating and went on dates with those strangers when you wouldn’t allow me to before.

I got a job, and I have a feeling you’d think I should find something “better” when I’m starting into the workforce from what feels like scratch.

I have a boyfriend who is mature and treats me kindly and communicates and has a lovely family.

I remember you telling me how important it is to have loving in-laws, and they are a delight and so sweet! :)

I wish you were here for any of this, and I dunno, maybe you still are. I still believe your death calmed down your anxious mind and helped you think clear enough to help orchestrate our lives since you’ve died.

It’s too eerie for dad and I do go to the same therapist without realizing it at first. Allowing her to see two points of view of you to help round you out and give her a clearer picture of who you were for us to reflect on.

Dad finding someone who’s peaceful and kind for companionship seems like your doing too. Making sure your kids were in safe and loving hands.

I saw someone online say that someone finding a new partner after losing their’s is a sign of how important that companionship was. They want that back as soon as they can, and I find that a beautiful perspective.

Because I know plenty of people who have said or followed through with losing a partner and saying they were DONE because of how bad it was. They were tired and were never going to put themselves through that again.

So to know someone seeks it after losing their own partner can be a sweet sentiment.

But mom, I’m still happy for us both. I don’t know where you are, and a lot has changed in our lives and I’m learning to just accept change more than I ever had to before when you were alive.

It’s odd, but it’s stretching. They’re growing pains.

I’ve grown more than I give myself credit for. I’ve slowly started to feel momentum my life and career and everything that I used to feel before you died.

This upcoming year, I’m going to work on living in the present and stop trying to live for some end-goal rather than in the journey I’m on.

I don’t know how to end this letter to you. I couldn’t write this any other way than a letter…

I dunno… Death is weird.

I love you, and think about you quite a bit. You won’t ever be forgotten.

On to year three; let’s see what else life brings.