I currently lack the elegance and poise necessary to begin this correspondence in a manner civilized enough for honoring the 10-year mark of your passing. After a decade of mining, sorting, disinviting, grieving, and rebuilding…
I’m fucking tired.
But you knew I would be. You always said, “Some things are worth losing sleep over.”
When you died, I had zero comprehension of how badly my foundation had rotted, and how rickity yours was as well. I promised you, moments before you quieted, that I’d take things from there, so that you could rest in peace. I had no idea what my role as exterminator would entail.
But you did. You always said, “If it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth doing.”
And as I write, I’m ravenous for more self-generated stability and passion in my life, now that I’ve had a taste.
But you predicted I’d finally get to this point. You always said, “It’s good to be hungry.”
I legitimately have a career as a writer. I have a kick-ass home that’s a reflection of me and filled with mementoes of joyful memories. I’m ready for mutual adoration with someone significant.
I trust myself and finally know my worth. This is my greatest achievement.
But something tells me you already know all of this. You’re just waiting for me to catch up.
And now that I have, it’s time for a break. Grieving’s an unpredictable, highly individualized process. I’m not making myself bad and wrong for how long it’s taken me to unfuck myself this far, but, good Lord, I’m ready for happy.
My gut tells me that you are, too, and have been. But you weren’t going to pull away until I was ready. You’re my mother, dearest friend, and guardian angel…that’s just your way.
Cheers, Pattie. May the next decade unearth, prioritize, include, celebrate, and enhance the life you always wanted for both of us…but this time, I’m behind the wheel.