It's your last day you know. The day of your death. Events preceding that day, you'll never get to experience. You've seen 9-11 but you've never seen the death of Osama Bin Laden. You're stuck on that day and everyone moves on without you. By means of convention, everyone should move on.
I wanted to let you know, Mom, for your own good, that there is more life ahead than just sleeping away trying to dream that old memory of him. I mean there's probably no other man you'll truly love but there's my future, there's my marriage, there's my kids that you've always wanted to see. I don't want them to question asking why is grandma sleeping so much. And I don't want to explain to them that I am responsible for it.
I should've never shown you lucid dreaming, but you were so sad--so struck with grief. I wanted to let you see him again, even if it was just in your head. Now you just sleep all day. Barely leave the house. The bed you sleep in is disgusting, you don't even take the time to wash the sweat you accumulated on it all these months.
It feels as though I've lost two parents--you're stuck with him. You're stuck on the day he died. You dream of sweet little memories of him, the way he dressed, the way he carried himself, the way he loved you. Your own damn feces and urine you sleep in because you don't want to lose that dream, or any dream you were so angry to have lost because I came in to say hi.
You're dead to me, Mom. The day of his death is yours. The events preceding that day, you will never cherish or experience.
When I found you in your bed, your face didn't look the same, the shit and piss stained on your rotting skin. Luckily the maggots were more interested in your defecation than your body. I wanted to hold you, one last embrace, like when I was a kid--but I couldn't do it, for fear I would vomit. I just stood there. I couldn't even cry like how I did with Dad. So I closed the door. Continued with my life. And left you, buried you in that room.
Because I might dream of you, I'm scared to sleep.
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