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Is It Possible
A horrible day
She’s come back. Does she think she can just come back after all these years? Expect me to accept her with open arms? Expect me to love her without question? As if she hadn’t killed me inside? Seriously, who does she think she is?
A week before
I’m living life. As if nothing’s wrong. I’ve almost forgotten the one day. How I want to forget that one, heartache, heartbreak day.
Two days after her return
I’ve hurdled past the fence of anger and into the pain. My eyes swell up, caterpillars swarm in my throat stopping me from swallowing, I release one tear, finally surrendering to the pain. I cry for the memories we’ve had. I cry for the memories I have without her. I cry for the pain. I cry for my insignificance to her. I cry because she thought she could just leave. I cry.
Two years later
A string of cars rides through the streets, unbroken. It passes the house had once lived in, back when she still lived with us. I see the tree I used to climb every day when I was younger. I used to sit for hours up in top branches, dreaming, staring down at the ivory sheets dangling in the light breeze. Then my eyes would drift up to the clouds in the sky, wishing I could just drift wherever. Nothing made me happier than being up there, free as the wind. It was my place of refuge, cocoon of happiness. I would stay up there all day, if my mother hadn’t made me come down for chores.
The days of gay, carefree life seemed so far away. Seemed like ages before the waves of darkness swept in and crashed onto my beach of happiness.
We reach the cemetery where her funeral will be held. The boa constrictor of cars snakes into the gravel excuse for a road that cuts the mostly-weed field in half. I exit the car, my black skirt swooshing into as soon as my matching black flat brushes the dry grass. Family and friends exit the surrounding cars and migrate to the large rectangular hole where she will soon lay to rest. Her cancer had gotten to her, through endless treatments.
Looking at her, lying so peacefully with her hands clasped over her stomach I almost release a sob but my hand shoots up to stifle it just before it can escape. As soon as I feel that pain in my throat and the pinch behind my eyes I realize that I do love her. No matter how much she has hurt me I love her, and I can’t change that. Ever.
Again on the horrible day
I was in my lazy Sunday pajamas, watching SpongeBob reruns and attempting to eat my Trix cereal before the milk seeps in and makes it all soggy.
Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he!
Over the TV I can hear the doorbell ring in the distance.
“I’ll get it!” my dad isn’t home but I still yell out of habit. I set my cereal down, frowning because by the time I get back it’ll be nothing but mush and I will have to pour myself a new bowl.
I wipe my hands on my pants before pulling the curtain on the window back and peering outside. I see a woman, somewhere in her fifties, carrying two tattered suitcases and I bottle of cheap bottled water glancing around. She doesn’t look to threatening but rather in desperate need of somewhere to stay. I gather up my courage and pull the door open.
“Rocky! How have you been baby?” It’s my mother.
Ten years before she left
They had been fighting a lot lately; it seemed that everything was up for discussion.
Later that horrible day
“She has cancer, and she needs help,” my dad is sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to convince me to go downstairs and talk to her. But I don’t want to. “She needs money for the treatment honey; we can’t just throw her out and let her die. Now can we?”
“She had no problem ditching us.” I state without emotion.
My dad sighs and I can tell he agrees with me. But he is too nice. Too compassionate. Too caring. And I know he is going to end up letting her stay and end up paying for her treatment. End up saving her after she left. Packed up without a word and drove off.
I look down, my eyes overloaded with tears wondering, “Is it possible to hate someone so much but still love them at the same time?”