I briefly entertained the thought of going with a local florist in New York, but there was no predicting how that would turn out. Finally-- like most people who resort to flowers as a predominately ineffectual way to communicate a deep and unabiding love for another person-- I realized they're utterly and pathetically trite.
Well, most of the time. Flowers are actually kind of great. You're the only person who has ever sent me flowers the way it happens in movies. Special delivery style. I'm certain as hell that no man has ever done that for me. I wonder if someone ever will? I know what you're thinking: of course someone will. I will begrudgingly wait for that person to come along no matter how long it takes, and thank you for setting a standard.
Now that I'm older, I also know (and perhaps to an extent, always knew) that I am not the person who should get you flowers on Valentine's Day. It's not my job. It's not my place. Yet, in keeping with our natural order of things, I just want[ed] to make you happy the way you make me happy.
That got me thinking.
What is my place? What has, historically, been my place? In your life. For you. With you.
In my view, my place has always been to stand beside you. Literally and figuratively. When I stand beside you, it is on your left side. This, as you well know, is a custom carried over from childhood. This was back when you smoked, so I wouldn't inhale the fumes. To this day, I always have to walk on the left side of another person. It feels very uncomfortable to walk on someone's right side. I simply can't do it.
Shifting gears a bit, here: I also stand beside you without hesitation in any given circumstance. Life has thrown a lot of crazy shit our way, and one thing I've been proud of is that you're the only person I am not afraid to stand beside.
I mean it, mom. You could blindfold me and lead me barefoot into fire. Not only would I trust you, but I would follow you. I would willingly endure the pain with you.
I've been wanting to ask you something for a while. It takes a bit of longwinded explaining, so bear with me. (< P.S., thanks to you, I know Shakespeare created that phrase for Lear). When grandma died at that awful nursing home and they led us to that horrific basement Twilight Zone-style, there was hardly enough room for the both of us to fit in the closet where they kept her. Remember? Of course you do. She barely fit. Her cot was diagonal because the door wouldn't close if they put her in lengthwise. Out of respect for her, I won't go into further detail about what happened next. Not really. I know she wouldn't want people to remember her like that, and for some reason I'm extremely possessive of that moment, even though I've talked through it with you and our family numerous times. Even though grandma was there, the moment was ours. No one will ever be able to truly know what it was like. You and I have a lot of moments like that...but I digress.
With your usual determination, you told the porter to give us a moment alone. You told me, while looking into the closet, that you wanted to see grandma's face. You told me I didn't have to unless I wanted to. I vacillated for a moment, unsure of what my place was. Your mother passed away. did I even have the right to follow you? Then again, we've always been in everything together, and in my gut I knew you wouldn't have asked me if you didn't mean it.
Then you spoke again, halting my racing thoughts:
"I don't know what she's going to look like. It could be scary."
Here's the thing. Of course I wanted to follow you...and I did. For several reasons. I will always be glad we did that together. I have no regrets.
My question for you, though, is this: did you ever think for a second that I wouldn't follow you?
Honestly, despite fooling myself into going back and forth about it in my head, there was never a question that I wouldn't follow you. Ever.
Particularly since moving to Dublin, I've observed a change in our relationship. It's a change that confirms, at least to some degree, that I'm an adult (which is reassuring). I was a perceptive kid, and that hasn't changed. It's not like I've gained some acute sense of awareness that I lacked before. Rather, in a state of being aware, there is a greater sense of reciprocity in the urge to follow you always. You told me what was true: her face could look scary. As two adults, our vulnerability had nowhere to hide. I saw yours and you saw mine.
It was all so surreal that I was actually totally calm. When you lifted the sheet and we gazed at her, it was ostensibly scary, but I wasn't at all scared. It was grandma. It was you, and it was me. I never felt more love between the three of us than in that moment. She'd hate me for saying that because we have a ton of great memories, but whatever.
My desire to hold, watch, feel and care for you has only increased with time. When you left Dublin in August, it was me watching you go past the gate. I watched you long after you couldn't see me anymore. It was you who, for the first time, did not look up and expect to still be standing there. But I was, just in case, in case you needed me.
I know what you're thinking, mom: I've failed her. I should have looked back.
No, you did not fail me. You never have, never could, and never will. You certainly did not disappoint me. In fact, as I stood there watching you take off your shoes and put them on the conveyor belt, I noticed you had stopped crying. I was so delighted to see that! That meant you knew I was going to be okay (you told me you didn't have any doubts, but it was still nice to see it on your face).
I felt so proud to be standing there on two sturdy legs watching you. Distance is relative, isn't it? They wouldn't in a million years let me through to the other side of the glass to embrace you one last time, so it was essentially viewing you through the same chasm as I would when I videochat you in New York. Even though you were already gone, grief didn't wash over me the way I expected it would. That's not to say it wouldn't later. There have been many nights without sleep, without comfort, without you. At the airport, however, I felt truly confident for the first time in my life. You want to know why? It's because of all the confidence I have confidence in us. That is the greatest gift you have ever given me. Us.
I know the past few weeks (okay, months, really) have been difficult for you. My depression and anxiety have worsened. You are busy wtih work, preparing to move houses and a million other things. I sense frustration in your voice when you send me resources and tell me to get help. You know you can't save me from myself...that is, my self-hate, the torment, the depression. You can't force me to enjoy being alone. You can't hold me when you want to hold me or when I want to be held.
Yet none of this is failure. Far from it. Even in the darkest throes of depression...the moments I really, truly want to die, I get up anyway. It's all because of you. I know you say I need to start living a life for myself. Learn to like myself. I'm trying, and I think I've made tremendous progress. Still, though, you need to know this because it is so fucking important: you give me the faith I need to trust myself, like myself, and start again. Thank you. My faith begins with you. It always has. You admire me for being resilient, which I can only laugh at. What choice do I have when I've got you as a mother? Who wouldn't be strong for you? To have you and to keep you?
I've said this one and I'll say it again: you've given me life many, many times. The reasons I've ever wanted to die have always been because I'm not good enough for myself. The sustaining thing, the calming thing, is that I have always been good enough for you, and the thing that keeps me sleeping okay is knowing that there's no such thing as failure because you will aways be proud of me. Is there a greater love than that?
I go back and forth about wanting a child someday. I'm sitting here and now I'm almost positive I do. People tell me I would make a great mom. If I could share even the tiniest ounce of love I've felt and received from you like a flower to the sun all these years excites me. You're imbued in every thought, every action, every moment of my life. It's in everything from the way I treat others, to the position I sleep in at night, to the way I add smiley faces to my signature. How wonderful it would be to share that great feeling with someone else. Someone of my own.
We both know Valentine's Day is stupid, but we also both want to be showered with love (don't deny it). I hope you get flowers, but part of moving to Ireland was me reaching the conclusion-- or more accurately, the realization-- that I'm not always the person in your life to do that.
I've written about you so many times. In high school, I remember my favorite English teacher once told us the most difficult thing to write about is love, and no one has ever gotten it right. ...because if someone did, perhaps they'd stop writing about it. It's tremendously difficult for me to write about love, but ironically, not dificult for me to write about life. So, in this brief post about love, I want to remind you how much life you've given me, over and over again.
I love you.
