Thirteen Years

I’ll learn from it all for a different, better future.

There’s a hole where she used to be.

A hole I’ve tried to fill with sex and other addictions that blanketed the sorrow, but left me broken in the end.

I’ve healed those other wounds, but the main one just dried out around the edges, unable to close itself up.

It’ll be thirteen years and things are starting to stir again.

It took seven years to stop crying.

By year eight I became cold about it.

Well, she smoked for thirty-two years. It was bound to catch up with her. It took her father and mother, but she still kept doing it anyway.

I quit, why couldn’t she?

But that’s not what it’s about.

It’s not that I love my family more than she loved hers.

I quit for them, sure. I quit because I don’t want to miss all the wonderful things she has.

I quit because I need my mom and I don’t have one. I don’t want my girls to go through that, especially not because of my own choice.

I quit because she died for not.

When I go, I hope it’s not from my own actions.

So, I think about the things that my mom missed out on. I think about the things I really needed her for.

I think and pull experience and knowledge from others, and grow without her so I can help my own family.

And that’s okay. It’s all okay.

My father is broken. My brother is broken.

I am broken.

But from the cracks in our cores sprouted new life, like loss always does.

She’s gone and I miss her, but I learned.

From her death and my near-death experiences, I’ve learned to take care of my body, mind, and soul.

I’m working to correct the damage, as she would’ve wanted.

(I hope she would’ve done the same had she been given a second chance like I have.)

I’ll learn from it all for a different, better future.

I’ll learn for her, for them, for me.


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