12 years ago today—its almost unimaginable—you walked into the dark of the night, in search of something. Was it peace, reprieve, rest, relief, a break? I don’t think you wanted to leave us. I can’t imagine you set out with intention on what transpired—did you? Mom, I still want to ask you so many things.
They say that time heals everything. I don’t know, because only 12 years have passed. In the grand scheme of time, 12 years is like a blip, not even a teenagers time. But I want to go on record: I think that adage is total crap. I don’t feel healing. I feel scarred, like smooth skin has moved over that place where you left.
I have always loved the story of my first scar, the one where you were making lunch—tomato bisque soup—and I reached up and grabbed the pot, and it dumped all over me, leaving a scalding splash mark forever tattooed on my arm. I only have the memory of you telling me that story every time I would ask, then I’d say tell me again (and again). Now, the story of your disappearance is much like that story. The scar will always be with me, but the sting of the moment is like a distant feeling I can no longer recall.
Mom, I still want to ask you so many things—but today I will just sit with my scars, make grilled cheese and tomato soup, and know what I have always known. Your love for me—for all of us—cannot be bound by space and time. I love you, today, yesterday and all my tomorrows.