Take care, caregiver.
It's going to be a day when my mom dies; it's going to be a fucking day.
No one left to prosthelytize her life lessons, my dad will throw all of her possessions away.
And I will dig through the scrapbooks she'll have left behind, and I will cling to every good memory I'll find, because the only ones not stowed away are the ones where I'm unkind.
And I'll inherit the no-longer needed, so long since heeded, chronicles of our lives. My dad will get a single bed 'cause he'll be single and half-dead, and the king'll need some rest from lifelong wives.
But I don't think I'll be able to sleep on her queen-sized mattress side, 'cause part of me will feel like I'm the one who killed her; part of me will feel like I'm the one who died. I should be the one who dies.
It's going to be a day when my mom dies; it's going to be a fucking day when time becomes concrete, cementing all my lies, and steamrolls every chance I have to reconcile with her lifeless clay.
And the guilt will start to bear down and break me loose, and all I've built will start to tear down. My wrecking crews will try to fortify my iffy fort, but it will be no use.
Fortify family is to strengthen one, then I wreck lose.
What kind of person shuns unconditional love? What kind of person shuns traditional love? Just the worst one - and I am that person (I am the worst son.).
It's gonna be a day when my mom dies; it's gonna be a fucking day.
I will cry and try to apologize, but I'll never get a chance to say, "I'm sorry." But no one will hear me, and no one will care.
Is this conjecture of her death romanticized? Should I expect to be bereft of standardized emotion, not agonize over devotion, with no one left (to antagonize)?
I'll be angry, because I've won, which means she's won, and there's no point now, with the challenge gone, because there's no pride in this kind of victory; there's no pride at all.
When that day in question appears, I'll question through tears, everything I know as real. I will begin to put things introperspective, but in the end, who knows how I'll feel?
Will I regret never have given birth, or not yet understanding what that's worth? Will I upset anyone I put on Earth, or is my karmic calling to experience love's dearth?
Who else will I pointedly wound by laying nothing on the line?
And if my focus on maternal seems entirely eternal, well, no offense, Dad; we were fine…
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