#mgal

Every time I have to tell someone new that my mom is dead or I meet up with someone who I haven’t seen since before she passed and I have to to bring it up as if it happened just yesterday The response I always hear is “I’m so sorry” and I’m halted mid-sentence at the brief, jarring processing of it In the middle of spilling the hurt, albeit only surface-level to prevent a complete collapse of the emotional levees, I hear “I’m so sorry” And I am paralyzed because it’s such an understandable, yet strange reaction But what I usually have to say after that is just as strange, if not stranger

“Thank you”

Am I thankful? What am I thanking you for? Should I be thanking you?

Thanks for acknowledging what I just said Thanks, my mom’s still dead Thanks, healing is a hike that doesn’t know where it’s going Thanks, I needed another reason to be sad again Thanks, I still can’t go to my family house without choking Thanks, every picture of her still stops me dead in my tracks Thanks for bringing the attention to me using my pain as a crutch for a second  Thanks for listening Thanks, I guess

I believe that I’ve been able to get myself to a point where I can keep the grief more or less in a containable place,  unless something that reminds me of her becomes overly sentimental But it seems like every other day, something new always manages to give me a new reason to grieve And when it feels like I’ve been able to overcome the new ones, the old ones come back to give a little wink before it’s gone again

I’m so sorry Thank you

I know they are offering their condolences, trying to provide me some piece of comfort, however small, through words because whether or not you’ve known the loss of a parent, each grief experience plays out differently, on a certain part of the path, and at times it catches me off guard, or confounds me completely, lost in my clumsily stacked pile of memories of her till I lose my balance and they all come tumbling all over the place again, and I have to gather them all up before looking at one too long, making remembering more of a process than it needs to be

I guess it’s just part of grieving and perhaps I will never think it normal for my mom to be gone Talking about it all brings it all back  but it never quite feels as real and affirmed  as when somebody else acknowledges it too As if confirming I’m not making it all up As if I’m not just retelling some sad story over and over again As if this isn’t just something I’m programmed to say whenever she’s brought up As if I’m not deflecting by just storytelling, but truly soaking in the reality

I’m so sorry

I’m so sorry you’re going through your grief I’m so sorry to have brought up a sensitive spot I’m so sorry you’re still navigating through the important cornerstone of a now-empty space she once occupied I’m so sorry it still makes you choke up I’m so sorry it comes when you least expect it I’m so sorry your mom isn’t here with us anymore I’m so sorry your mom has passed

Thank you

Thank you for acknowledging my pain Thank you for showing your concern Thank you for letting me open my heart about it for a second Thank you for understanding I’m still figuring out how to navigate it Thank you for not rolling your eyes Thank you for letting me think of her for a second Thank you for everything I love you and miss you, Mom

Sorry, thank you

The joke of the living the irony of life the folly of our humanity

is that we are killing ourselves  in order to stay alive

Small eyes, dark irises Small eyes, big lashes Small eyes, one just a bit off from an angle Small eyes like crescent moons paired with genuine laughter Small eyes that get smaller when sunkissed Small eyes opened just enough to let someone in Small eyes closed just enough to barely hold your secrets

Small eyes asleep... oh no wait Small eyes... looking down "Yes, I'm awake."

Small eyes that don't match the magazines Small eyes that don't match the people on TV Small eyes that don't match your classmate's Small eyes that have trouble seeing from the back row Small eyes magnified by glasses you insist keeping on Small eyes shrunken when exposed without glasses (the real reason you hate contacts)

Small eyes losing shine every time you heard "chink" Small eyes opening wide when you heard laughter over "slant-eye" (I’m Filipino, by the way) Small eyes when people stretched their eyelids at you Small eyes at an angle because suddenly that was "exotic" Small eyes confused because the slant was never "exotic" when you didn't need fingers to do it

Small eyes swearing they emote when emotion wasn't enough Small eyes being told to open when they ARE open Small eyes stinging when you'd wear eyeliner Small eyes enduring because "they looked better that way" Small eyes wincing because “better” means “bigger”

Small eyes leaking in an unlit bathroom Small eyes burning and watercolored from salty rage Small eyes unable to look at themselves in the mirror Small eyes puffy and smearing what already was deemed unsightly Small eyes becoming even smaller because of your FAT FACE!

Small eyes slamming shut, because you just saw the unthinkable

Small eyes fluttering into a new morning Small eyes taking in solids rather than smudges Small eyes still struggling to see the person in the glass Small eyes shook and amused... because your hair looks CRAZY

Small eyes, still small Small eyes, still big enough to see the world won’t always tell you the truth; instead you must tell your truth, and the world will see: Small eyes will never be as small as those who wanted to make you feel small

Small eyes see you

Small eyes, beautiful

Writing always peaks at your lows,

After all, Who's got time to be a writer when you're soaring through a sky of abandon and all the words you eve want to say are impulsive, joyous, passionate, fleeting, falling from your lips faster than you can taste them like electric particles on the wind, moments whispering into thin air without the permanence of paper.

They needn't stay in a place to be read back because you're living the story of your dreams right here, right now, and you haven't got the sick kick of breaking your own heart in the name of art.

So how did you write all of this?

we are not stone, we are not brick, we are not steel.

we are not meant to be limited by parameters, we are not meant to crumble from stillness, we are meant to grow.

we are trees, we are flowers, we are roots in soil spanning limitless miles, we sway, we breathe, we pollinate.

we are kissed by energizing sun, we absorb the falling rain, we glisten as a beauty of evolution and nature.

we uproot and we rise, we clasp new fertile ground, we adapt and we become stronger.

we are of a foundation that is not immovable, we will bend and we will break, we will shift as the Earth sees fit.

Silence is the absence of sound, the sound of the dissent, of the consent, of all things flowing through you, around you And Silence will deafen all, perpetuating, as it does, the unspoken Power which we allow to ensnare the hive-mind, letting the shouts, cries, screams of the Unheard continue to be unheard

Silence is a murderer, to which we are all accomplices

Scream, beautiful Voice

till you choke with Sound and the World can be deaf no longer

Guardian of unspeakable Truth Stone sentinel of a lost cause Cold from lack of sun’s touch Walls that once protected meaning, now aged by gradual decay Rotting from the inside, though never the outside Never on stone-faced dignity Never on display for eyes to dissect

Tall, beautiful, strong, proud, flawless

Hollow

The unspeakable Truth you guard is that you don’t know what it is anymore.