Sometimes I Scream in Empty Rooms

Dead.

That's not all they were saying, but that's all I heard.

Dead.

There isn't really a euphemism for death. By definition, a euphemism is a figure of speech meant to make something sound better. "Passed on." "Not with us anymore." "In a better place." They all mean dead. Gone. There is no euphemism for death.

They were still talking to me when I left. Simply stood up and left. I think I muttered something like, "Excuse me," or "I have to go." I drove home in shock.

My mother was dead.

I entered the house and sat on the couch. I didn't reach for the remote or pull a blanket over myself. I sat there.

But there was no time to grieve.

Friends and family had to be called. My mother's will had to be read. Her things had to be moved. Movers were in my house, touching my mother's things, taking them from her room. It was like they were tearing her apart.

I told them to take everything. It wasn't the same anymore. I paid them for the extra hours to move the rest of it to a storage shed - which I also paid for. And then they - and my mother's things - were gone.

At last I was alone.

All alone.

She had left me alone.

I stood in the empty room that really wasn't empty at all. The yellow paint on the wall, the flowery wallpaper border at the top, the carpet beneath my feet. It was all her. Hell, it even smelled like her. In my mind's eye, I could see everything the way it was, the way it was supposed to be. All the furniture was in its place. Mom was lying in the bed, not because she was sick, but because she felt like it. I saw myself, much younger, run up and jump in bed next to her. I watched as the little me's lips formed the words, "Read to me, Mommy?" And then my mother reached for the book on her nightstand, put an arm around me, and read to me.

And then it was all gone.

"Why?" I whispered.

And then I screamed it.

"WHY?!"

I turned and beat the wall with my fist, throwing kicks at the familiar yellow paint as well. I was screaming, sobbing. I felt like I was three again, throwing a tantrum. I was waiting - hoping, praying - to feel my mothers arms around me, pulling me from the wall to stop me from hurting myself, or even her stern voice, scolding me for being so immature and sending me to a time out.

At last, I turned and sank to the ground, my screaming, sobbing, and thrashing through. The tears kept coming though.

"Why, Mom?" I asked. "Why did you leave me alone?" All at once, the anger returned.

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?!" I screamed again, then fell into sobs when only silence answered.

I could hear my sobs echo.

When I calmed again, I looked to the ceiling. Was she watching?

And then a thought struck me. Didn't she keep a diary? I felt around the corners of the room, and found a place where the carpet was loose. I pulled it up and found just what I was looking for. I lifted the worn book as if it was my child, then sat against the wall again, and opened it carefully.

My mother's handwriting.

Every page was filled with her neat script, her thoughts her words. Her. I held it to my chest and inhaled, sensing her presence again, but in a different way. I skimmed the first few entries, then flipped to the last.

My darling daughter - Know I love you, and I'll love you always. You are my pride, my joy, my wonder, and I'll always be with you. "i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)" - e.e. cummings.

I felt more tears fall.

I looked up once more. "Thank you, Mom. I love you."

I traced the words of the poem, and realized truly, for the first time, what they meant.