The sun rose today and descended upon the Earth its bright beacons, much like the sun shone brightly twelve weeks ago when you died. It is Easter Sunday, and I can still recall pastel- and neon-colored eggs adorning the backyard. Hidden amid the long strings of grass, within outdoor tea kettles, and inside planters filled with moist dirt, their plastic sheen glistened in the light.
We stopped painting chicken eggs when you first got sick. I have flashbacks of my youth as a mousy brown-haired girl with rimmed glasses meticulously painting each egg with a thin brush after waiting impatiently for the watercolor to dry. Your sister and her daughter sat adjacent to us at the kitchen table, a crooked wooden table furnished with a tablecloth of pink and yellow flowers reminiscent of the vernal equinox. Easter was among your favorite yearly holidays.
On Easter Sunday, I was supposed to see my father, your sister, and your niece today, twelve weeks after you died. Despite the gleaming sunlight and trills of children in neighboring yards as they discovered their own eggs, I was melancholic. Sometimes there is peace in nostalgia, but today I felt the absence and sorrow of memories. And as the light twisted corners into my bedroom from the open window, I endured the same sense of shock as I did twelve weeks ago on that uncharacteristically warm afternoon.
I told my father, “I’m sorry. I cannot celebrate Easter today.” I informed him of the depression that washed over me and expected understanding but was met with his words of disappointment. I felt like the enemy and realized nothing has changed. Even after your death, I’m still perceived as the escaped convict of the family — the abandoning daughter. Intertwined with childhood memories of laughter, egg hunting, and artistic expression were recollections of my father’s alcoholic rage and tension that permeated the household climate. And despite your warm demeanor, there existed underlying narcissism disguised as the “fun parent,” a familial relationship that resembled forced friendship, a jester among children.
As I grew older, I began questioning my own reality. Did the free-spirited, fun-loving mother actually exist, or was I being brainwashed into thinking you were such a motherly figure? When I attended your memorial service, family and guests alike revered you — your charisma, selflessness, unconditional love, and emotional strength. All spoke of you as a queen of light who held a torch of love. And as I sat as the rebellious princess in the front of the showroom, I understood that you had manipulated them as aptly as you did me. You were a hoax.
Don’t speak ill of the dead, they say. They don’t advise, however, how to speak when the dead are hurting you in the afterlife.
I was the mousy brown-haired girl with rimmed glasses, the studious book nerd whose life turned grim at the edge of a blade. Spending the formative years of my life in survival, I escaped your cage fifteen years later, albeit with scars littering my frame. And on this Easter Sunday, twelve weeks after your death, I vow to turn my survival into healing. I do not owe my life to you — I owe it to myself. And I will not apologize anymore.
Poetry & Prose by Leigh 