Goodbye

  Dear Mom,

  I'm not a good son. I wanted to open with that because once the truth is stated, there's nothing left to hide. I'm not. It's alright, I know. I could have been spending more time with you, maybe just to talk or to listen. I didn't. I'm selfish. I've always been.
  Some regrets we carry until the day we die. Some memories we cherish until that day as well. I remember Dad calling me on his cell. I had it because I was working for him. I was at the dump. I was emptying the flatbed of garbage with Robert. I remember the smell. It was stifling.
  When Dad told me, I was numb. I was numb to the reality, numb to the stagnant air of refuse discarded by our society. I was numb to the nail that pierced the heel of my shoe and punctured my foot only moments after I learned. I remember the tetanus shot.
  You have cancer. You have it your lung. A destructive cell that will spread through your system, attacking you. Killing you from the inside.
  I wanted to take your place.
  Irony is feeling bad for smoking outside of the clinic while you sit inside a room, crying. We thought we would stick together. We thought this would bring our family close. We thought we would all quit smoking. Christmas came and went. Birthdays and Thanksgiving. We all tried our best to be there, because six to eight months is not long enough to experience the joys of life, even after hitting sixty years of it.
  You weren't suppose to meet my daughter. You weren't supposed to travel. You weren't suppose to live for so long. How? How did you defy something so inevitable for so long? What was it about your will to live that helped you fight what had been given? Am I that strong? I guess not.
  I'm not a good son. I could have been there more often. Instead, that numbness stayed. It stayed whenever we saw each other.  It stayed while we presented you with a slideshow of your life. It stayed whenever I was alone with you.
  It stayed as your hair disappeared.
  It stayed as you lost weight.
  It stayed as you clung to hope.
  I watched you from a distance. I watched you slowly die from a vantage point, a safe point lost within my own insecurities. So many questions I wanted to ask you, yet the numbness kept me from approaching you. So many questions. I never asked them.
  Are you afraid of dying?
  Do you hate God too now?
  Will you come back and let me know what's waiting for me when I join you?
  The numbness was apathy. Denial. You're fine. Things will change. You are fine. I can go on living the same way I always have and so will you. I was selfish. I didn't think I had to change. I didn't want to. I don't want to. I'm still waiting for the phone to ring.
  Some regrets we carry until the day we die. I will carry the guilt of  not having been with you more often, not being there each day to support you. I will regret having acted like life had not changed, even as yours went away. I will regret not having told enough times that I love you.
  Some memories we cherish until that day as well. I will never forget the undignified look on your face. The constant visits of pity and sorrow. The heavy breathing, the clicking in your throat. The shallow gasps of discomfort. I will never forget having left you with payment for the boat. I hope it carries you far from regret and closer to memories. I will never forget the time I finally spent with you alone. My one unselfish act to be with you, Mom.
  The few minutes by your side. Your lifeless side. Your hand was growing colder. Your eyes wouldn't close. Your fingers couldn't hold the two quarters I gave you for the boat. The boat that carried you away.
  I love you, Mom. I wasn't there, but I loved you. I wish that had been enough.

  Je t'aimer et je te manque beaucoup. A bientot.

Son