It’s one of those days where I’m missing my grandmother (again). I’m beating myself up for not finding the cemetery, and I feel like a fucking broken record. B’s been sick the past few days, and it reminds me of all the times when W would be ill and she’d be the one who had the patience to rock him to sleep and feed him tiny sips of fennel tea. It also brings to mind how she was there when I wasn’t feeling well. From the time I was a little girl, she always knew the best thing to say, even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I miss her so much. I want her to see how smart and grown up – and tall! – W has become. I want her to see B’s big brown eyes and listen to him laugh and dance and sing. I want her to meet all the people who have brought joy into my life since she died, and I want her to be proud of me for all the things we both never thought I’d do: graduate from college, support myself, be happy.
I feel so damned selfish and stupid, crying when she’s been dead for seven years and surely I should be over this by now. Instead, I sit here and feel sorry for myself and wonder how it is I get back to the point where I can feel that kind of love again, the kind where I have someone who will notice if (when) I fall off the face of the planet and can tell just the right way to bring me back from the edge. And that IS selfish and stupid, the idea that anyone could possibly love someone that much. Maybe she did do the impossible in that regard, or maybe I’m idealizing her when in reality she wasn’t any better or worse than anyone else. And so I’m left here with my “I wants” and missing her in the worst way possible.
And: I’m dropping out of school for this semester. I said something had to give, and that looks to be it.