Steve and I are at Filter and he’s talking about the passing of his dad. He says, “I couldn’t call him an alcoholic until after he died.”

I sit there stirring my iced decaf americano because they don’t fucking do decaf in this city, half relating but realizing that grief is a frail, personal, thing with so many facets and factors. I relate in the essence that a parental death is complicated, and nearly four years after my mother’s I find different ways to feel about it. Each night takes me down a different avenue but at the end I always feel angry about the fact that I still have thoughts and emotions attached to it.

Thoughts and emotions attached to dates and times and seasons. I remember the day I found out she was sick, Will and I were dating and did this impromptu road trip to Portland where he brought a growler and a couple t-shirts. After we drove through Sommerville looking at the Christmas lights and we sat in awe in front of this one house like we were children. Mom called in the middle of it and told me she went to the doctor’s and said that it wasn’t good but she was going to get better.

She died less than a month and a half later. I’m mad at myself for believing her. 4 years later I’m still mad at enjoying all the lights and not talking to her.

It takes me a while to get over things.

Despite that, we don’t always call it for how we see it. Death sometimes blurs the shitty parts. I know Edye wasn’t always there but I sometimes delete that part of it to justify how uncomfortable it is to miss her. I sit there looking at Steve, grateful for his honestly all the while feeling like a child next to the adult that I should be.


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