17th of June

It’s my birthday tomorrow.

Wow, right?

I don’t understand why it’s such a big thing. To celebrate that you were born. It wasn’t I who looked so I was born. I didn’t do anything. It was my mother that did it all.

She carried me for nine long months and then gave birth. Which is one of the most painful things a human can do, I’ve heard.  So why celebrate me? It should be my mother who should get the honor tomorrow, not me.

But we won’t be able to celebrate her tomorrow, even if I’d want us to. Sure, dad could drive to the graveyard and put a flower on her grave or something like that. But…

I still miss her sometimes.

I have a bottle of her perfume hid away in my room… Is that creepy? That I sometimes get it out from its box and smell it? It reminds me of her…

I… sometimes I start crying when I think of her… Still.

I still miss her so much.

And I don’t want to seem unappreciative to my dad or anything, but… I sometimes think that my situation would be a little easier if she was still here.

She was such an amazing and beautiful human being, my mother. So graceful, so happy, so loving…

I have memories of thinking that she was actually God. That whenever people talked about God, it was about her they spoke. Ha ha. I learned later in life that, obviously, that wasn’t the case. But she never stopped being the God of my life.

And like all religious people would feel if their God would vanish, I almost died right along with her when the cancer took her life. I felt like I’d lost the reason to live.

But somehow my dad managed to be strong. Stronger than ever, when he saw how much pain I was in. Even though he’d just lost his wife, he managed to step up and become the new God of my life.

You may think it’s silly, for me to use the word ‘God’ to describe them, but… They really were Gods to me.

And it kills me to see my dad in the state he’s in right now. And it makes it even worse when I remember that it’s my fault.