Forget me lots (Completed)

29. Dawn🌿

Friday late afternoon, seven twenty-four to be exact. Mom and I are sitting in the backyard, she has just come home from work. It's been three days since Stormy's visit. Clover lies at my feet. She hasn't left my side since I came home.

Yesterday she threw a fit when she realised I was taking my yellow bike from the shed. The poor thing barked for a solid two minutes, blocking my way until I understood she wanted to come along. I left the house for the first time since I came back and pedalled my way to Providence Hospital to see Dr. Elena before she flew back to New York. I'll miss her, the reassuring noises from her golden bracelets and the warmth in her gaze.  

Lucky for me, the security guard, Mr. Torres—a good friend of my mom—has a soft spot for dogs and he was more than happy to look after Clover while I walked in for my session. She knows him because he's come to our home several times to fix whatever breaks—and trust me, that happens more often than not. Ours is a house with two bouncing demons, one teenager and an all-thumbs-grown-up female who panics over a leaking faucet.

From the corner of my eye, I study my mother's delicate features, the length of her lashes and the way her upper lip curves a little—Bree does the same thing, and it's adorable—whenever she's daydreaming.

I wish I could find the words to express how much she means to me. How in awe of her I am for enduring what I put her through. During my worst nights at the ward, when all I wanted was to slip away, her cuddles, encouraging whispers and tiny gestures of sheer love, kept me afloat. After my dream with Dad, I understand Mom was my lighthouse, casting her light to guide me back to the shore and into her arms.  

The day they released me from the hospital, Mom cried a bit, watching Clover and me interact. When my pups saw me, her body shook. Tail to snout, trembling and wriggling. She kept whining, pushing at my hands, my legs, my face, licking and searching, trying to crawl in.

"Easy, girl. She's okay. Everything is okay." Mom tried to soothe her as she whimpered some more. I suppose, if she could tremble and twitch and push her face into mine, she would have.

So, here we are, shoulder against shoulder. I watch her twirl her wineglass by its stem as her bare foot touches mine. I'd tease her about being mellow, but tonight, I won't.

We watch the sunset as the birds settle into the trees, readying for bedtime. The breeze changes before our eyes, it travels down the branches of our oak trees.

I feel self-conscious and ashamed for having treated her so badly right before my accident. I shouldn't have said those horrible things to her. She didn't deserve any of it.

I know I'm going to screw up some more before I learn to control my grieving emotions. I also know I'll ride my whirlwind again. The same way I know that moment will pass and another will come.

Grief is like that. An okay day, and a good day, an okay day, then a bad. A bad that follows and empties you. A bad like a sinkhole.

It's an unrelenting need to lay your face flat on a table, wherever you are, whoever you are with.

A night of vivid dreams and when you wake up, you hold on to that one dream where everything was back to the way it was.

Grief feels like missing. You miss him. You miss belonging. You miss the bicycle rides and the smell of his cologne when he came from work. You miss his voice and his smile and so you hear it in your heart.

Elena said my whirlwind wasn't the worst thing, that my mind did it to protect me from the harshness of the world. Like a cushion to the moments that are too much to bear.

We'll work together on this twice a month. She's decided to continue my treatment and help me figure out when and why I'm doing it. I'll learn not to drift away, to come home. To my friend Stormy, to my puppy and my siblings. To my mother and to him... I'll learn to let go of the voices while I heal.

Mom's sobs bring me back to the moment. I yelp and meet her wet gaze. She's glass, all crack whispers, and wet eyes.

"What's wrong, Mommy?"

"Oh, hon. It's just... Having you here, safe. It's overwhelming to think in the blink of an eye you've grown so much. How did that even happen? I can't control anything around you. I can't make sure everything will be okay. I can't stop the sky from falling. I would. Anything for you, my resilient baby girl."

I squeeze her hand tight. "Life kind of sucks, huh?" I elbow her left side and she giggles. It is true, life is chaotic, impossible. A maze of sorrow and sunlight. No maps allowed.

"Yeah, it kind of does." She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Not always." She shrugs. "Sometimes."

"Definitely always-sometimes. It sucks but doesn't too much," I say, and she takes a breath.

"It's also the best thing. To be here with you." She rests her head on my shoulder, and I lean mine on hers. We watch the changing lights. Life won't stop changing. I guess it's whatever it is as you observe it. One moment it's something. The next, it's something else.

Bree bursts through the back door, "What's for dinner?"

Tommy hops behind her, his energy boundless. "All we can find are these cans of peas—yuck!"

Mom unfolds her limbs and rises, stretches and gives them a wide smile before telling them we'll order pizzas. My siblings run inside, beaming, fetching Mom's bag with sticky fingers and eager chirps.

I linger outside, taking in the last glow of the sunset. I dip my toes in the eerie silence and find it peaceful. My right hand fingers curling around Dad's rock as the orange beams of light blink. They ease from the soft crinkle of Clover's paw, crawl to the space between us and move on.