My Heart, Unbreaking

Cracks first appeared as my mother lost her grasp of time and numbers. And her birthday.  At first, I kind of knew they were there, but I didn’t want to really acknowledge this new reality.  Of a cracked heart, especially since I wasn’t sure what it felt like and how deep the pain would go.  Mom lost her job. And most of her friends. And her voice. And her sense of purpose. The fissures turned to gashes deforming my heart with every gasp of realization that Mom was also losing her future.

In pieces, I was held together by my family’s shared determination that Mom would not lose her loved ones. 

One last breath. Mom said goodbye.  But I could not.  She stayed foremost in my mind, and the scar tissue gluing my heart together was so. very. heavy. with the weight of guilt.  Of second-guessing whether we were enough. For Mom to look back and know that she had a life well-lived. Of pretending not to notice my dad’s eyes watering every time a specific song played on the radio that reminded him of her.  Of spending holidays at my sister and brother-in-law’s house because Mom’s absence was less noticeable there. Of my sisters and me lessening our involvement in Alzheimer’s activism because it was a constant reminder that no matter how hard we tried, we could not save her.

Time is a common prescription for healing wounds.  My mind understood the premise.  But my soul felt it was bogus. Two years after Mom passed, I found an old photo of her behind a birthday cake with two extinguished candles.  She can barely see over the top.  Her expression is a mixture of excitement and delight, and seeing it made me cry every. damn. time.

Despite my reservations, time is sneaky, and it pulls my heart in new directions.  Some of the minutes and hours I used to spend trapped in the past are now commandeered by songs and games and stories directed by my niece.  Recent and life-long friends help me create new memories, and my family’s bond strengthens as we celebrate new milestones. 

Finally, I re-imagine the setup of Mom’s birthday photo. The adults behind the camera probably told her to make a wish before blowing out the candles, but what more could a two-year-old ask for that she didn’t already have, especially during a celebration with CAKE?  A certain kind of peace grows from knowing that, in that moment, my mom knew joy.

I tried to reassemble my heart like it used to function, but it knitted itself back together in an altered form.  Something new.  Something after. This version feels different because it is now designed for all the experiences I have yet to encounter.  The old wounds ache like bruises, but I know that this once-decimated heart beats strong, powered by the memories of my past and a realization that I should limit my time dwelling there. My heart carries Mom’s spirit, the best inspiration that my future can be the best of what I make of it.