My mother's birthday is in May. I celebrate her image in my mind every day, regardless of the triviality of the date. I am honoring the ghost of a loved one through mere contemplation, and it's turning me into a better son than I ever was. My mother died on a Thursday in March, several years ago, that I remember as if I was there. All I can honestly claim to remember is being dragged out of school to witness the abandoned body, that looked hauntingly like that of my mother, in a hospital bed. Then being thrust back into the convenient arms of sympathy.
Sometimes, in dreams, I willingly settle for the clone that walks and talks, breathes motherly devotion, looks and sounds just like my mother. Sometimes, in these beautifully terrifying dreams, these vivid memory nightmares, I accept the truth that my mother never died. That what I always considered to be the reality, was really just an unending, painful nightmare. Just like my drunk father offered me on the stage we so foolishly labeled a viewing. My father sold me precious scars to carve into my subconscious, and I've loved him all along for his wise perception. Even if he eventually accepted the lie that has cursed us for several years. He saw things I could never trust, and built unnecessary signs of devotion around a sober memory.
I will always love my dead mother... No, wait. Not dead. Disconnected. From this life. From my life, but not my heart. Never my heart. And I'm sure that's all that matters. I'd really like to find comfort in the illusions, but there are things in this life that I wouldn't ever want to give back - such as my time with you, where our love for each other fills the void better than anything else. I'd love to find solace in the relatively overrated dream world, where my mother is alive and well and (living in New Jersey) loving me completely, but I just keep waking up.
