Nathanial Garrod

I Know

Sleep. Deep breath. in and out. calm. relaxed.

Birds chirp. Eyes open. Clock. 5:15.

Pillow over head. Roll over. Back to sleep.

Birds chirp. Eyes open. It’s too bright. 5:17.

Pillow over head. Roll over. Back to sleep.

Alarm. It’s time. Something is different. Shoot. 7:30. It’s late.

Get up. Make bed. Mechanical motions. Pour cereal. No. Not cat food. Cereal. Shoot. That would be bad. Not really. What does cat food taste like? Whatever. Cereal. Grape Nuts. Yum. Spoon to mouth. Mechanical.

The front door opens. My aunt is home. This is unusual. She comes over to me and hugs me. Why is everyone acting weird today? I bet it happened. I wonder what this means. My uncle is quiet.

I sit back down. My aunt kneels by my chair.

“Your mom is dead,” she says.

I know,” is what I say in my head. “Oh,” is what I say out loud. Funny how that always turns out different.

She hugs me again. It is a strong hug. Like you would hug someone who just lost the only person who raised them.

Things are blurry. I do not shed a tear. I finish my cereal. I take a shower. Today is different from every other Monday. The pace is slower.

I tie my shoes. I remember tying my shoes. Many things I do not remember about that day. But I tied my shoes. I looked in the mirror on the side.

“What does this make me? Where does this leave me? What happens next?” I ask myself in my head. I have nothing to say aloud.

I do not remember talking that day. I know I did. I had to. But I do not remember it.

We drive to the hospital.

Oh, there she is. Dead. White. Pale.

No. That is not her. That once was her. That was once my mother. Now: empty.

Things are blurry. I am here. I am there.

The elderly lady my mom shared a room with beckoned me over at one point when I was the only other person in the room. I do not remember her first name. She never talked, except to ask for the TV to be louder.

“I’m sorry,” she says to me. Then she motions that she’s done talking.

Things are moving quickly. I talk to people. Hug people. Move stuff. I am here. I am there. I do not even remember.

Now, it is night, and I am alone in my room. I look at what I wrote in my journal the day before. One by one, the tears start streaming down my face.

It does not seem like it. But she is gone. I will never be able to hug her again. I will never be able to talk to her again. Or listen. Or argue with. Or read to. I will never be able to watch a movie with her, or make dinner for her. That chapter is over.

And I cry.

When the tears stop, I think for a moment. Then I fall asleep.

One Comment on “I Know

  1. Lauren
    March 30, 2010


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


This entry was posted on March 29, 2010 by in Events, Memories, Thoughts.