PRISONER EXPRESS

To walk away from the hospital after hearing my mother pronounced dead is a strange and naked feeling. I felt as if the front of my clothes had burned away, my flesh was exposed, nasty, seared.

24 years after, the cruel spell of grief has about broken itself now. After this long time, I feel as if I have come back. I like to cry on Mother's Day and holidays. Though I am saddened to think about my mom not being around to do these things, I enjoy the exercise of my emotions, moving through life with all the switches turned on. And when I was feeling sorry, as I sometimes do, when I am mad at the world, I say that I'm glad she's dead. I say that this world is not worthy of her. I can recall each day shared right up to the last one, and nothing will come to spoil the memories. My mother was a wonderful woman who gave me a gift in her death. I see now that she passed on to me courage, the idea of heart. It may seem to be simply a functioning organ that pumps the essentials, but I have learned that a good heart will keep me going despite the stress I put on it. I couldn't fix my mom, no matter how much I needed to. Yet she gave me courage, a paradigm for fixing myself. She gave me her courage and heart's strength for a transitional period, the years I needed until I could get strong again. I take care of myself. I believe I am supposed to live long, even prosper. And I believe I have a responsibility to be somebody who cares about others. I don't just believe this. I know it. My mother gave me courage after the storm.