Healing from Transitions

We can’t reconcile everyone’s recollection of effort in grief.

I say this because last night my mother had a conversation with an aunt about creating a schedule around care, community, and support around my aunt’s ailing mother. She cried on the phone to my mother, held by her wisdom.

I sat in the kitchen, stunned. I sat in the kitchen transported back to 2020 staring at the crude (and fluctuating) schedule in my diary that I made because my sister was tired. I was tired. My brother was tired.

In this very conversation where my sister says aloud, “Mom, you only watched Lolo for one night.” Our mother responds, “I tried.”

I’m still working on holding both truths in my hands:

1. My mother was traumatized as a fifteen-year-old abandoned in the States by her parents who married quickly for a green card and a family

2. My siblings and I needed more help than we were given because our parents trauma got in the way of providing this help

Other truths I hold in my hands:

1. I resent becoming a primary caretaker of my Lolo

2. I hated being a primary caretaker of my Lolo

3. I felt guilt towards this hate the moment Lolo passed away

Self-soothing during a panic attack going through the cyclical motions of grief 
after Akwaeke Emezi

How much would you have changed? / Can you reorganize innards / sew new / sinews? / Have you the hands / of God? / There are more ways of being free / and physical tethers do not equal a loss / of love / or energy / but an outpouring of new life / this way / there is no more pain / please / please instead in a lower octave / and not in the way an animal tears from your teeth toward the ocean / heave the blanket over your head / it is yours / this is yours / there are no more / arguments / and appointments / for therapies of mind and body / no more / questions / translations / every time / you see a / butterfly / it is a reminder / someone / beyond / loves you. / You are always / found / Your skin a shield of family / because he is right there / in every picture / he holds your Daddy’s hand / Bisaya ka, ‘day / Pahinga ka na, / he would say / good night na, / he did say / thank you for being here until the end / is the truth. / Do not think of hospital beds / the sheen of / green curtains / rickety / equipment / and bleach / nor the splinter of goodbye / because somewhere / everywhere / butterflied / he is / always / alive.

Anger is an emotion I continue to hold and unravel. This poem was a way of surrender. I didn’t want to be angry anymore. I didn’t want to feel guilt where there isn’t a reason to feel guilt.

So now, in my hands, I hold the butterfly of myself and let it coast the wind.