Month: February 2025

but she’d insist on a cocktail instead.

We’d meet in the bar parking lot because we’d both be 12 minutes late.

I’d glance lovingly at her blue Chevy Cruze with a million miles on it while she’d do a double take at my 4Runner. She wouldn’t need to say it, for me to remember it’s her dream car.

The bartender would greet her with a smile and hug, but he wouldn’t remember me at all.
She’d order a double jack and a glass of water, and I’d order the same, just so I could slide my whiskey over to her when hers ran out. I’ll let her find out on her own that we stop drinking when we’re 32.

We’d pick the same outdoor corner table that we always did and make the same half-joke about getting matching tattoos at the shop next door.

I’d ask her how work was going, knowing damn well she was trying every day to make ends meet even though she was reaching her limit to walk out of that call center any day. I’d share details of my job with her and watch her jaw drop while I promised that working with kids is actually really fulfilling.

She’d ask about the hoof prints tattooed on my fingers, and I’d get to brag about the farm we finally made. I’d show her recent photos of Wolfgang and Ruger and their 25 new siblings.

When she asked about our parents, she’d beam proudly that I didn’t tear up when I confess it never does get better.

I’d remind her that all her struggles are temporary and even though sometimes it feels endless and lonely, that I’m always rooting for her and anxiously waiting for her at the end of the storm.

I know her fight-or-flight doesn’t let her think about me often, and sometimes it’ll get so hard she’s convinced that I don’t exist at all.

But she’s lovingly on my mind every, single, day.

you’d have to introduce yourself to everyone at my funeral.

You’d have to listen to the quirks of my personality and hear about all my favorite hobbies from people you didn’t know. You’d hear about my chocolate pumpkin scones from my neighbors, and my Mexican sweet bread from my boyfriend’s family. You’d hear about all the different flowers I know how to embroider from my old landlord, and the flowers and fruits and vegetables that I can grow from my old roommates. You’d have to hear about my Saturday night good times from my bar friends and about my accomplishments from my childhood bestie, who I hope wouldn’t bother to even tell you hello. You’d have no idea all the places I lived, or the jobs I worked, or what any of my animals were named. You’d have no idea my favorite food or what color my hair was. You’d have no idea how I turned out, or how much I was able to teach myself. You’d never know I turned out okay. I turned out empathetic and loving and encouraging and emotionally mature, even though all bets were off. You’d have no idea that I spent an entire decade grieving you.

In a room full of people who loved me, you’d have to tell them you’re my parents.