December, As I Know It

Cemeteries, moons, and a wish for a sparkly pen.

And so continues the loaded month, the month that holds all of my broken pieces, the month that cradles my unrelenting hope.

The first week of December, for me, looks like a cemetery. It looks like a long walk with my mother to the end of the line and an out of body extravaganza complete with poinsettias and french braided pigtails. It looks like delirium and sleeplessness, losing track of the hour and all sense of time and place. I looks like twisting myself into a sailor’s knot to sleep by her side in an uncomfortable chair, drifting off for a moment to the rhythmic sound of hospital machinery.

The first, second, and third look like holding on. Grasping at tiny movements and briefly opened eyes, pleading with brain surgeons and God above for miracles, pushing away the truth I knew in the bones that she made for me. These were the days of hope.

The fourth looks like facing the darkness, a new moon with irreversible orders to rise and take her with it. It looks like my sisters and I taking turns reminding each other that we could in fact face the moment, that we had no choice. It looks like pouring my heart onto the floor along with my body when the night had finally come. It looks like the deepest blue-black bruise on my soul, the mother of all wounds. It looks like three single red leaves from a Christmastime plant, placed like a flower on her chest. It looks like signing my name on a piece of paper, a certificate of loss. It looks like the coldest winter. It looks like letting go.

The fifth and sixth look like a flurry of meetings I never requested, choices I wanted no part in making. Those days look like three young women, shocked and traumatized, finding unexpected humor and making the most of a shit sandwich. I took photos of my face in bathroom mirrors to prove I was real. None of it seemed real. I chose two outfits, one for me and one for her, and I hated them both.

Bathroom selfie on the morning of Mom’s funeral, 12/7/21.

The seventh looks like a hologram of myself standing in front of a crowd, dressed in muted black, trying to put the entire world onto a few sheets of notebook paper and read it aloud. It looks like hugs from old friends and tears on the faces of the people I love most. It looks like a ride to the graveyard and a black umbrella over my head that seemed ridiculous. What did it matter that it was raining? Would the umbrella bring her back? Leave me, soaked.

The eighth and beyond were the lost days. Holes dug in my bed that I prayed would swallow me whole, eyes staring at a ceiling fan for hours on end, the stabbing in my heart that I was sure would bleed me dry, missed calls and delivery truck flowers—these were the days of disappearing.

I accepted a ziplock bag full of anxiety medication that was offered to me as a means to get some sleep. I took the little blue pills as instructed at first, one before bed and one in the morning if my heart was racing particularly fast. Then, I started taking another after breakfast, one more around noon, another before my long afternoon nap, and two before bed. Soon, the pills were gone. The pangs remained.

I did not ask for anymore pills. I did not think of drowning myself in vodka or cheap wine. I knew that not even 100 proof would touch the pain. The honest truth is that I was so goddamn grateful to be sober, to feel that much. I was in awe of how alive I could remain with a heart shattered into bits. Instead, I went down a rabbit hole of woo-woo internet videos and near-death survivor stories in search of my mother. I started listening to the silence. I started hearing her voice. I started piecing together some form of acceptance and started writing things down I’d never said out loud. Write it, I heard her say, all of it. I’m still writing it. All The Things I Never Told Her. Me, My Mother, and Our Ghosts. December, As I Know It. I began confessing and haven’t stopped. Life suddenly seemed too short for saving face.

In the years that have passed, four of them, December has always brought with it a heavy pause, a solemn reminder that everything is always ending. Hasn’t it always been that way, though? Is this not the month for burying things?

I walked outside tonight and let the freezing air sting my face. I looked up at the clear sky and counted a billion stars through the bare branches. Silent night, holy night. I thank each one that I’m still here, that I found a way onward from that darkest December. I acknowledge how much I’ve grieved since, how many other people I’ve buried. I accept that this is the way we live. I believe I am still as human as I can be. I confess that I am in a new season of endings, fresh dirt mocking me from across the lawn. Still, I have a track record of survival. The hopes I had in January, the flowers I saved from April, the disappointment that came in late September—fertilizer for next year’s harvest.

I imagine a new December, one not far from now, that writes with a sparkly pen. Maybe, a new lover from a past life asks for a dance in the cemetery. Maybe, I oblige. Maybe, we tussle and frolic through the dawn, bringing the old bones to life beneath our naive feet. Maybe, a new story is written over the darkest month of the year and I’ll begin to look forward to its yearly arrival. Maybe, a kiss against an old oak tree sparks new life and a full moon rises with irrevocable orders to make all things new, again.

Three poinsettia leaves for three young women, forever changed.