How to Save a Life

"The Heart of the Matter" by India.Aire

...I've been tryin' to live without you now / but I miss you baby / the more I know / the less I understand / and the things I thought I'd figure out / I have to learn again...

I miss my Mom. I do not have any fancy words or pretty metaphors to say I miss my Mom. Language is not glamorous enough to explain the angst of having a mother but being so disconnected from her.

On days like these, when I can only hear the sad songs, I cry all day about her. I wonder if she thinks about me and I wish I could tell her about how much I think about her.

I fear picking up a phone to call her. I fear feeling the heat of her frustration and anger through the phone. I know she is disappointed, pissed, sad, etc., but I do not want her to tell me that.

I just want to hear her voice. She does not have to say much and we need not have a discussion about anything important. I just want to hear her talk. I want to hear her laugh that is more a gentle cackle. I want to sit next to her and watch the scary things that she watches.

I want to hear explain why she is still upset that Hillary did not win the nomination. I want to hear her teach me about women; motivate me to be a feminist. I want her to make krain krain for me.

I want to lay in her bed while she talks to the television or sends my Daddy to fetch her something. I want to go to sleep with her.

Sometimes I miss her so much I start to wonder if she even really exists. I wonder if I ever had a mother because she and her memory are so distant and fuzzy but near and convivial too. I miss her so much that the tears well up in my eyes and fall directly to my lap. The do not even touch my skin. I miss her so much that I cannot imagine why I was ever mad at her.

Some days I cry so much I feel as though my face has turned ugly. I shower and pull out a black bag full of Mac and Revlon make-up and I paint my face and hide the sad behind bronze eyeshadow and midnight black eyeliner. I erase my puffs with light foundation. I always have to do it twice to cover up the tear trails left while I cry because I want to watch her put make-up on.

And then I look so pretty. I look just like her. The older I have gotten the more they all have said I look just like her. It is like punishment to look like her, see her in my smile and my random facial expressions, hear her in my laugh, but have her nowhere near.

...I've been tryin' to get down to the heart of the matter / because the flesh gets weak/ and the ashes will scatter / so I'm thinkin' about...forgiveness...