My mother is dying.

I didn’t know I could cry to the point of screaming without being very "aware" of it. I mean aware in like how we feel like crying, you know, you feel it coming, or you even want it. This was a different kind of cry. I didn’t want it. It crashed over me, like a wave. When you’re a kid, and you love the ocean, and you dive under a wave only for the next one to come, and you dive again, or get hit by it. Eventually, you’re hit.

I guess I didn’t think I would cry this hard because I’ve cried before. When she went to a home, I also cried, but it didn’t feel like the wave that happened to hit me. It felt like a pillow, like the one I rested my head on in the hotel by the highway after my long day. A long day of watching.

My mother has been dying.

It was Mother’s Day. I bought her some flowers in a cute box. I ordered it online, and the flower shop underestimated its delivery capacity. The flowers arrived late in the day, when she was already asleep. I gave her the flowers the next day and explained what happened. There was a card on them as well. She held the box in her hands and asked, “What do I do with it?” I’ve been thinking about this for years. What do you do with flowers?

The long days back then weren’t for watching. They were for doing, always doing, doing even without taking it in. Doctors, medication, laboratories, going to work, picking up groceries. And they didn't feel as long. It felt like autopilot. I binged a lot of series that I’m not sure I really liked. Listened to many an episode of true crime podcasts. There’s nothing wrong with them, but I do find myself not enjoying them as much anymore. This is not important. What is important, as I reflect, is that doing became realizing
it became blaming
it became avoiding
it became grieving
it became understanding
it became watching.

And then, I watched my mother die.

It didn’t happen while I was there. It happened despite my being there. There was nothing I could do, realize, blame, avoid, grieve, or understand. I could watch. And this is not fair to say. Nothing about this was fair. But I stroked her hair, knowing no one would ever stroke my hair as she did; I looked her in the eye, knowing she wasn't really seeing me; and I said I was okay. I said I wanted her to be okay. It felt like I never wanted anything else. I don't think I will ever want anything else.

I hope you don't have to watch your mother die.
But if you do, know that you'll be okay.
Because everything becomes something else.
Because mothers don't really die.
You'll always remember her when you stroke your hair.