Pieces

11-24-2009 Tuesday

One of the things that I will remember clearly is the image of her being taken away from us. She was escorted by a fat Chinese looking guy and I was frozen in the entrance of the huge building, not making any move, afraid that if I show even the littlest amount of weakness, I might also be taken along with her to what they call 'dorms' but I knew better. I glanced at my gramma beside me, and I know that her pain is greater than anyone else's pain at that moment.

I never thought that the time will come that I will find myself in this place. It's not a bad place, though. The surrounding is quiet, peaceful and inviting. Unless you really know the kinds of people are being thrown in this place, then you'll be fine to roam around without feeling uneasy whenever someone dressed in all white from head to toe would bump into you.

We have to leave my mother in this place without any formal goodbyes, hugs or kisses because if we'll do that, then it will be so much harder to let her go. My gramma and I had to hold on to each other for support as we fought back tears as the very last piece of her was eaten by the darkness. There was silence and she was gone.

There was darkness. The steady blowing of the wind. The blinking Christmas lights on the garden in front of us that says 'Happy Holidays'. Happy? That dark early morning, I've completely forgotten what it's like to be happy.

A couple of minutes after she was gone, we finally managed to gather our remaining strangth to walk away from that place and go home. On the ride back home, I kept on looking back at my gramma who sat behind me on the van. She gave me a weary look and I understood. We're on the brink of giving up. I can feel the thin thread of hope that I'm holding on. I'm afraid that if the thread breaks, then I'll have a breakdown, we'll all be dead and there's nothing else. Nothing but pieces of shattered hope.

Back at home, the memory of the darkest night is still evident. Our things are scattered everywhere. The dent on the wall that my mother kicked hard is still there. The broken cellphone is still lying on the floor. The clothes are piled up in the bed. Mess. Disorganized. Broken pieces of the has been.

I started cleaning up the mess. I started picking up the pieces of what was left to us. There's not much to pick up anyway. A lot of parts are still missing. Where do I go from here?

Labels: hope, mother, pink crimson, Rehab. CLDRC

posted by Monica-Lynne @ 12:15 AM