6 hours ago
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Random.
So sudden.
One of my first memories of you
that I can remember
came flooding back so fast
I could barely comprehend it.
So random.
So sudden.
It just swept over me.
I was alone in bed,
eyes wide,
staring at the ceiling
mere hours after the longest, hardest day.
My family had all sat waiting in the hospital,
surrounding your bed,
the evening you passed.
You had been unconscious for hours
before your organs finally couldn’t go on any longer.
But I know you could hear us.
No matter what anyone else says.
We held your hand.
We talked to you.
We told you your son was coming.
Just hold on a little longer.
A miracle from God, we told you.
We begged you to hang on.
And then we saw your son
walk through the door.
I know you sensed his presence.
After the gut-wrenching cries
that only a son makes
after losing his mother,
he kissed your forehead goodbye.
And you were finally able to let go.
It was as if God was calling you—
telling you your son was there,
holding you,
telling you he loved you,
kissing you goodbye
one last time.
Your soul left the Earth
no more than five minutes later.
I replay it in my head
over and over.
Unable to get the last image of you
out of my mind.
Unable to forget
the heartbreaking sobs
of goodbye
at your bedside.
But then
out of nowhere
like an air freshener sprayed straight into my nose,
I could suddenly picture
the backseat of your car.
I was three.
Maybe four.
I couldn’t remember the color of the car.
I couldn’t remember where we were going.
Only the smell.
Sweet bubblegum
mixed with a hint of cigarettes.
And you looking back at me
every now and then,
checking on me.
I don’t know why
that was the memory that found me.
But it did.
And I’m glad.
After all those years
of never thinking about it,
I remembered it
just hours after you were gone.
The smell of bubblegum
comforts me
and completely tears me open
at the same time.
Because for a moment,
I am three years old again.
And you are still here
Random.
So sudden.
One of my first memories of you
that I can remember
came flooding back so fast
I could barely comprehend it.
So random.
So sudden.
It just swept over me.
I was alone in bed,
eyes wide,
staring at the ceiling
mere hours after the longest, hardest day.
My family had all sat waiting in the hospital,
surrounding your bed,
the evening you passed.
You had been unconscious for hours
before your organs finally couldn’t go on any longer.
But I know you could hear us.
No matter what anyone else says.
We held your hand.
We talked to you.
We told you your son was coming.
Just hold on a little longer.
A miracle from God, we told you.
We begged you to hang on.
And then we saw your son
walk through the door.
I know you sensed his presence.
After the gut-wrenching cries
that only a son makes
after losing his mother,
he kissed your forehead goodbye.
And you were finally able to let go.
It was as if God was calling you—
telling you your son was there,
holding you,
telling you he loved you,
kissing you goodbye
one last time.
Your soul left the Earth
no more than five minutes later.
I replay it in my head
over and over.
Unable to get the last image of you
out of my mind.
Unable to forget
the heartbreaking sobs
of goodbye
at your bedside.
But then
out of nowhere
like an air freshener sprayed straight into my nose,
I could suddenly picture
the backseat of your car.
I was three.
Maybe four.
I couldn’t remember the color of the car.
I couldn’t remember where we were going.
Only the smell.
Sweet bubblegum
mixed with a hint of cigarettes.
And you looking back at me
every now and then,
checking on me.
I don’t know why
that was the memory that found me.
But it did.
And I’m glad.
After all those years
of never thinking about it,
I remembered it
just hours after you were gone.
The smell of bubblegum
comforts me
and completely tears me open
at the same time.
Because for a moment,
I am three years old again.
And you are still here
