ten years ago, i was six years old.
i was a small child, unable to retain any knowledge about the world, the big picture, the grand scheme.
days passed and i never thought too hard about that.
my biggest fear was the green goblin from the spiderman movie.
ten years ago, i got a new tricycle for my birthday.
i begged my mom to let me open it before the big day, but she stubbornly refused.
ten years ago, i learned how to wash my own hair.
i was gifted with toys that i wasn't allowed to touch, and i never questioned why.
the drugs my mom talked about, the cigarettes she smoked, it all meant nothing to me.
my greatest regret was coloring all over the walls, because she made me clean it up, and it took a long time.
ten years ago, my mom left for work.
i clung to her leg and cried, begging her to stay, but she stubbornly refused.
ten years ago, i jumped on the bed when my mom wasn't looking.
i learned how to ride my trike around the sidewalk, but when a woman came up and started a conversation, mom rushed me inside.
i didn't mind. cartoons are fun, too.
what made me the most angry was when mom said i had to sleep in my own bed.
i tried, but the dolls on the wall kept looking at me, trying to find out all my secrets, even the ones i didn't know.
i went into her room to tell her about the scary dolls, but she wouldn't wake up.
she was breathing, so she was okay, but she wouldn't wake up.
i forced her eyelids open; nothing.
i poked her face; nothing.
i tickled her; nothing.
ten years ago, i begged her to wake up and tell me that everything was going to be okay, but she stubbornly refused.
ten years ago, mom's been getting sick a lot lately.
she keeps giving me these talks about how she's going to die one day, but i don't believe her.
i don't understand.
i got a new bike. one with training wheels. she lets me ride it around the halls of the extended stay, and when i'm good she lets me have a candy bar out of the snack machine.
she says that when the weather changes, we'll go out to the courtyard and build a snowman.
ten years ago, i begged her to let me go and play out there right NOW, but she stubbornly refused.
ten years ago, i said goodbye to my mom for the last time without even knowing it.
i gave her two kisses and a hug, like we always do when we have to part ways.
she says that she loves me, and she'll see me soon.
i waited for a while, i was patient.
watching cartoons on the tv was so much more fun at my cousin's house, they had a lot more channels than mom ever did.
ten years ago, we got a call.
mom was dead.
not withering away little by little,
not in and out of hospitals.
she was there, and then she was gone.
and that was all.
i cried and begged for her to come back to me, but she stubbornly refused.
these days, my biggest fear is dying tomorrow without knowing what awaits me on the other side.
my thoughts are constantly plagued with the worst case scenario.
my body fights to face another day.
my greatest regret is that i never told my mom how strong she was for raising me despite her mental illnesses and her paranoia.
my wish is that i could go back to that last hug and stay there forever.
maybe that's what heaven is like.
