Transliminal Selflessness

I wake up before my alarm. It should be Sunday. The first thing I think of today is when my mommy was preparing lunch for us and made her sandwich with the heels of the loaf so I could have the soft bread without another thought and without mention. I must have been nine years old; my first understanding of unconditional selflessness. The image is so clear to me. She is standing at the counter, soft and kind, ready to offer me whatever she can give. My chest is concave and scalding with poison. 

My mom died two weeks and one day ago. It's been hard as a single mother since she was so active in helping me take care of my son, but the emotional loss is what's eating me alive.

The TV is on in the living room so Luca is up. He's probably playing his video games, likely still awake from last night. I hug my pillow to my chest and lie flat on my bed so I can see my shuttered blinds above the headboard. 

The sun isn't even up yet. A car passes by and the headlights shine through the planks to cast an aurora borealis of light on the ceiling. It reminds me of a crib mobile and the crook of my forearm covers my eyes to cork hot tears. What a cruel fate that I've been orphaned in adulthood. 

Forcing myself upright, my legs walk themselves to my bathroom. I look in the mirror as little as possible since I look horrible. It takes me embarrassingly long to untangle the messy bun from my head since it's been my go-to look for about three to four days. The brush crunches through my straw hair; I'm in desperate need of a deep condition. In the shower, I am incapable of letting my thoughts run. Music is too overstimulating. 

As a grief counselor who lost her dad, you'd think I've paid my karmic dues. I've peeked at the bright side, that my unbounding loss will help me empathize with clients, but I'm not ready for my mom to become a talking point in my testimony of professional growth. I'm not ready for my Mom to be anywhere but her spot on the couch, reading someone's biography, ready to answer my phone call at the drop of a hat. 

I have two days left of bereavement and sub-zero faith that I can make it through the day without breaking down. Yet, every day I surprise myself with the amount of productivity I somehow manage. Planning a funeral, the complicated mess with insurance, parenting my son. I'm praying on my hands and knees that I can get through sessions on autopilot for a while. 

I have gone from taking things a day at a time, which proved to be unimaginable at this point, to taking my life in single actions. My goal at the moment is to, at some point, get off the shower floor. 

-

I allow myself to waste away on the couch and listen to Luca talk to his friends through headphones while playing Black Ops. He's very patient with me considering he's a teenage boy. He sat on the floor with his back to the couch, never scooting too far from me. We rise only when both our stomachs are cramping with hunger. 

Lunch, or dinner, was a large pepperoni pizza and cheesy bread. I forgot to call ahead. Waiting on the plastic seats for my order, I see a Palm Reading shop across from me in the strip mall. 

I don't make the assumption that it's pseudoscience. In my work, I follow every religion and spiritual practice. If a client believes their loved one is waiting for them on his own planet, then I will take that as an undeniable truth. If they believe they have been reincarnated as a blue jay, then they will hear nothing but acceptance from me. But, I have no faith of my own. My practical approach to religion has sucked out any spark of faith. My mom could be in anything around me, but I don't know where to look. She's gone to a place I cannot find, and this time there is no omniscient being on a speaker asking for her to meet at the front of the store.

I can tell myself that it's research when I open the door and walk through an excessive amount of hanging beads. 

A small woman with washed-out purple hair and glasses welcomes me from behind a desk. I know that she can tell I'm grieving from the smile she tries to hide. I guess she's justified, I would pay everything I had if it gave me answers to my unwordable questions. 

She leads me to a room with dust-caked velvet curtains for a door and sits us at an intimate table. With hands on the table, her palms turn up to ask for mine. The air is warm and smells of patchouli. I give my hands to her and allow her drawing touch. 

-

Hmm… your lifeline breaks high, could be a sign you're idealistic. 

Our session was underwhelming. Afterwards, she handed me chicken scratch notes of her findings. I opened them once I was in the car, though I remember most of what she said. It was less conclusive than reading Horoscope.com. 

There are a few bullet points explaining lines that she said were significant. Lifeline breaks and heart line shapes. At the bottom she wrote, “You have your mother’s hands” and stapled on a five-dollar-off coupon. 

She's either a Sherlock lever deducer or my grief is so loud it speaks beyond my mouth. 

But, I do. 

I have my mother’s hands. I have her nimble fingers and long almond nails. I have raised veins and cold palms. Her gentle strokes and bent knuckles wiping away tears.

To think of her so uninhibited and sweetly is overwhelming. I clasped my hands tightly and imagined I was holding her hand instead of my own. Letting my left thumb draw circles on my opposite hand. 

I have been looking for my mom in the natural world and in religious texts, but she's been inside these parts of me before she even died. Baked in. When I'm deep in depression my mother’s hands plant firmly down and hoist me out of bed. When I cannot eat, my mother's hands lift the spoon for one more bite. 

Our hands open and I hold them to my face. My mom is a good person; a completely undeniable fact. She was incessantly kind and needlessly apologetic. The least I could do is allow her hands to perform the services that she would, and feel the underserved satiation for myself. I can let her take care of this, of me. I will eat my soft white bread, from the center of the loaf, and know my mommy has prepared it.