Some days, I am still so angry and so sad.
I didn’t want to be someone whose overwhelming feeling upon her mother’s death was relief. Yes, she was suffering and suffered greatly her whole life. But I am talking about that sense that “Hey… I can breathe now. I never have to deal with one of her alcoholic boyfriends ever again. I’ll never again be manipulated for money or stolen from or guilted into anything or yelled at by someone screaming so violently that their head rattles and my ears ring with an instant headache.”
I never wanted to have to fight back. She once physically attacked me, grappling me with her full weight (over two hundred pounds), slowly pressing all breath out of me. Her teeth were bared and spittle flew out between them as she heaved her straining smoker’s breaths like a beast.
She desperately wanted to escape the hurt and anger of her childhood and thought she could wring it out of my body by force, losing her humanity in the process.
I never wanted to be a part of that.
I never wanted to carry this hate in my heart.
I didn’t want to be the kind of person who would take a certain satisfaction in knowing that her ashes were sitting unceremoniously on a shelf gathering dust in the basement of a funeral home.
Forgotten, abandoned, forsaken yet again, even in death.
Her sister had wanted to take the ashes back to the island YES I said yes please do but my brother had said no. I was disappointed but did not press the issue. I had a history of being annoyed over his expression of any kind of a preference. And I learned not to question someone who is grieving.
However, even now, I feel a twinge of annoyance at his insistence and lack of further action resulting in them still being here. It’s something I feel sort of obligated to deal with somehow. Although this will never happen. I have washed my hands of her.
My heart is another story.