That was the title of the email I got from The Rumpus today, and it's apropos, as I also had a rough night. I dreamed about my mom. Before I went to bed ThisMoiThisMoi posted on Twitter, "Today I turn 27. The same age my mother was when she had me. Now the universe will explode." I retweeted and responded with, "My mom was 27 when she had me and I was 27 when she died. Somehow the universe didn't explode."
Not because I was trying to be a downer or anything, but because it's true. It feels like the universe should have exploded when she died, or at least collapsed in on itself, but somehow it didn't. I also just know what she means. When my mom died I wasn't a mother or a daughter anymore at the same age when my mother was both. I felt unmoored and without purpose.
Then last night I dreamt about her, a few times I'm sure because I woke up a lot, but I only remember the first time. I don't know what was happening, but at the end of the dream we hugged. I was certain that she was real. I could feel the soft papery skin of her cheek against mine and the pucker of her lips as she kissed the little hollow where my dimple forms. I could feel her chin digging into the outer edge of the back of my neck because it always seemed like she was trying to wrap herself around me when she hugged me, protecting me from the world with her body. I could smell her too.
My mom was depressed for a long time, even though I didn't realize that at the time, and she smoked, and at the end she'd been sick and a lot less mobile. Her smell was a combination of stale cigarette smoke, her soap, and whatever you conjure up when you imagine dusty sunlight in a sewing room. She was like a house that hadn't been aired yet for spring, holding tight to all the aromas of winter. I have no idea how to describe how comforting that smell was, but it was the smell of all my memories.
And in my dream, I knew that it was really happening, that by some miracle I was getting to hug her again. Then I woke up and it wasn't real, and I cried myself back to sleep.
I wonder if there will come a time when this sort of thing happens, and instead of it making me sad, it feels comforting? I hope so.
Not because I was trying to be a downer or anything, but because it's true. It feels like the universe should have exploded when she died, or at least collapsed in on itself, but somehow it didn't. I also just know what she means. When my mom died I wasn't a mother or a daughter anymore at the same age when my mother was both. I felt unmoored and without purpose.
Then last night I dreamt about her, a few times I'm sure because I woke up a lot, but I only remember the first time. I don't know what was happening, but at the end of the dream we hugged. I was certain that she was real. I could feel the soft papery skin of her cheek against mine and the pucker of her lips as she kissed the little hollow where my dimple forms. I could feel her chin digging into the outer edge of the back of my neck because it always seemed like she was trying to wrap herself around me when she hugged me, protecting me from the world with her body. I could smell her too.
My mom was depressed for a long time, even though I didn't realize that at the time, and she smoked, and at the end she'd been sick and a lot less mobile. Her smell was a combination of stale cigarette smoke, her soap, and whatever you conjure up when you imagine dusty sunlight in a sewing room. She was like a house that hadn't been aired yet for spring, holding tight to all the aromas of winter. I have no idea how to describe how comforting that smell was, but it was the smell of all my memories.
And in my dream, I knew that it was really happening, that by some miracle I was getting to hug her again. Then I woke up and it wasn't real, and I cried myself back to sleep.
I wonder if there will come a time when this sort of thing happens, and instead of it making me sad, it feels comforting? I hope so.
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