The End of All Good Things

mother-and-sonMemory is not so bridled in our youth. We are too inexperienced and innocent to filter out what we want to remember. I remember the weirdest things about my childhood but there is nothing linear about it. I remember bits and pieces in my Pre-School days; a slight dab or two in my Kindergarten and early primary school endeavors but none so sparse as my memories of her. The passing of time has all but erased the finer details of her. Memories of the heart conjure up feelings that place you on a journey back through time to the precise its birthing. Do you remember how someone smelled, sounded or looked like? These are the memories that go far beyond the basic senses. They are the detailed descriptions of someone that if you tried to describe them, it would take an instant to remember but a lifetime to write those details down. These are the memories that go beyond book learning and regurgitation, bid you to stop whatever you are doing, surrender to your senses and remember. Again, time has smeared some of the memories of her to the extent that I am not sure if I can truly claim the ability to “remember” but in my most solitude thoughts, some things are brought out from the dead and given a new life.

I remember my very existence was derived from her. In her presence I felt safe and secure. It is that sense of security one has when mother-and-son-robert-duncathey know that they are safe to explore the world in front of them. I remember distinctive freckles on her skin and some remnants of her laugh. Though I cannot remember much that life nineteen years ago, I can only remember how I felt when she was near to me.

Much of my memory is tainted by the last years of her life where sickness slowly stripped the source of security away. I remember as a young boy, having to care for her and make her feel comfortable. I remember the very day where I was told that she would be taken away from me. There was a numbness there that I could not explain. The news did not hit me with any degree of intensity but more of a mediocre indifference. What did this mean? Then, she was gone and I did not even get to say goodbye. The next morning I remember my father telling the story of her death over and over on the phone. Each repetition of the story brought new tears and I felt like he would soon run out of them. I did not understand and I was too young to try to understand. The only thing I knew at the time was that she was gone. That word, gone, brought painful feelings to me. If someone is gone, they would soon return. I would feel a stab of pain at the sight of someone’s departure but the remedy would be that their absence would be ended by their return. But there was no return for her. There was a void and it left me with unanswered question and I would never receive my answers.

2174315643_d83d365607I can only speculate what my life would have been like if she were still here and I was whole. Is she proud of me now? Would life be brighter and would there be more joy to be had? Would I not struggle under the burdens I have now? Rabid speculation is all I have to hold onto long after the precious memories of have become distorted. It is be better if I did not remember at all but instead I have shadows of a former love. Nothing is more painful than the blurry reminders of something you once had. And the valley never ends because when something vibrate comes along, the pain of loss reminds you that this can be taken away. Is that not the byproduct of a loss of something too immeasurable- the end of all good things. It comes a point where you become suspicious and wary of good things because their time is limited. So you keep goodness at bay because the pain of the past is more endurable than the new pain of future loss.

There are some things time cannot heal and some scars always stay tender. There are things in this world that leave you shattered beyond complete repair.

mourning

Advertisements

One thought on “The End of All Good Things

  1. I believe you have found your calling…writing. I had no idea what you felt about this situation, because your mother’s death was never discussed. I wonder, too, what life would have been like if she were still here. Still talk to her….

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s