The Ocean
Maya Angelou paid people to be at
her dying mother’s side to hold her hand
when she couldn’t, but it didn’t even occur to
me. I was too busy moonlighting as livestock. All the
milking and prodding held all other priorities hostage and
I was thrashing, gasping for air like I’d suddenly
forgotten how to swim. When grief is
consumed by the undertow of
guilt, there is no bottom to it.
The sorrow has dimmed, its flashlight
flickers to speckle the black depths on special
occasions but the guilt, it devours my insides like a
piranha. The tsunami of motherhood banished you to
the backburner and then you died, and I learned of
it from a text message. You know dad’s never
been great at approaching sensitive subjects
with tact and my surprise was idiotic. You were
wasting away in a hospice and deep down I knew your
final breath was imminent even if I wished for more time.
It’s not the infrequency of my visits that keeps me up at night,
it’s what happened after. Or, more accurately, what didn’t
happen. We never buried you. There was no ceremonial
farewell. There was a service, but it was rushed
and stiff, trying to be too many things
and instead, being nothing at all.
As your family and friends trickled through the
door, I couldn’t think of much to say to anyone other
than to remind them to eat the platters. I was even pitched
into a giggle fit when James looked at dad’s dog and with
his sublime concoction of British dryness and perfect
comedic timing said, what a ghastly little animal.
I love dogs but this one barked spastically
any time my infant son made a noise so calling him
ghastly really tickled me and those were the only tears
that fell from my face that afternoon. If there were a more
official ceremony where we lowered your ashes into the ground
and tossed flowers and wiped away tears while someone—
me—delivered a eulogy, maybe I’d have the closure
to confront this cavernous grief head on but
instead, its suspended in purgatory,
held there against its will by an
anchor sinking toward a floor that doesn’t
exist. Because how could I let you die alone after all
you did for me? You stepped in to help raise me, filling the
gap in mom’s too-big shoes and I should have been there
every day at the end, holding your hand, lying that
everything will be okay. But I wasn’t there,
and I didn’t have the foresight
Ms. Angelou did to send
someone on my behalf and now
you’re punishing me, aren’t you? You
came to me in a dream once and you were smiling.
It was a smile I’d never seen on your mortal face,
completely free from the burden of worry.
That ethereal smile was the most
beautiful thing I ever beheld,
second only to my son’s slightly
over-bitten grin. But then you never came
back. And now the only thing keeping me afloat
on this saltless ocean is that I know you live inside of
him and when I hug and kiss him, I’m hugging
and kissing you, too. Even if you
never come to visit
me anymore.
About the Author
Ashley J.J. White is an English student and poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction writer from Canada. She has had several poems, short stories and essays published in various magazines; she loves to read and write about philosophy, human nature, and relationships. Twitter @ashleyjjwhite