Monday was the six-month anniversary of my mother's death.
A photo posted by SpeedontheBeat, the K.I.N.G. (@speedonthebeat) on
And for the first time since before she passed, I thought about her and didn't get lumpy-throated. Now, of course, that's not to say, "oh, I don't give a damn about my mother." Perhaps, I'm finally beginning the process of accepting it and healing.
When it happened, a few of my friends who'd gone through similar tragedies, they would always say "oh, it hurts, and will always hurt. After a while, the pain isn't as bad, and the thoughts of death are replaced by those happy memories again." I went through the standard stages of acceptance of death. I was angry at my mom for dying how she did--and not letting me know of her other ailments. I was angry at the paramedics for their somewhat lackadaisical approach to resuscitation--even though, we all knew she was gone pretty much right after the heart attack happened. I was sad. I broke shit out of frustration. I partied with friends, trying to escape it all. However, I still didn't feel like I'd begun healing.
Then my second son was born. He looked, strangely enough, like a little boy version of my mom for the first couple weeks of his life. It got to me since, every time I looked at him, I saw her. One day, I looked at him and realized something--as cliched as it sounds. She's not gone. I mean, yes, her physical body is no longer alive. Be that as it may, she lives through me and my children, and their children and so on. Death is a part of life. But death isn't the only thing that life and living's about.
Throughout August and September, the thoughts about her would come and go. The desire to break down or be angry about it? It's slowly dissipating. This, of course, brings me back to this past Monday.
While cleaning up my office, I found a photo my oldest son took of her a couple years back. It wasn't the most "flattering" photo. My mom's hair was disheveled a bit (she'd recently stopped wearing her wigs and hair pieces at the time) and she was just chilled out in an University of Maryland football jersey. She reminded me more of her own mentor/late-life mother figure, an older woman with a mustache named Ms. Boone, who'd died thirty-some years ago, than she did of my mother. But, I smiled. Because, even though it wasn't the best picture of her, it was still her. For the first time, I was truly happy about her not feeling any more pain from her worldly diseases. And while I'm not the most religious person, I would like to think that she's watching over me.
So, thank you for twenty six and a half years.
Beauty has come and is coming from the madness.