We Only Breathe For So Long

After weeks, you would think that I was coping fine with things. I was. My way of coping with it was getting involved with the wrong crowds, changing my closet to torn materials and pockets with a pack of smokes. It wasn’t my fault if my dad coped with it differently and thought I was doing the grieving process wrong. Truth is, there is no right way of dealing with someone’s absence. Whatever way you try to fill that missing hole, it won’t work. It will either make you more miserable or less numb, never really filling the gap. Of course, if filling the gap with cement were an option, death wouldn’t be such a bad thing since nobody would deeply feel anything when you’re gone - and the piece of life that you take from them.

My mom passed away roughly 5 weeks ago. And three days. I’ve been counting each minute. It’s impossible not to notice that she’s gone since nobody wakes me up anymore complaining that it’s too late to be in bed. There is nobody to comfort me after a bad date or even a bad day, to remind me of my chores, to yell at me after doing something dumb or forgetting to do something at all. At the time, I never valued those moments. Now I value it more than ever. They’re memories. And all these scenes are played in my head constantly so that I never have the need to forget her warm smile and her encouraging eyes.

“Kylie,” my dad opened the door softly, “if you want more boxes, I got a handful. They’re in the garage but remember, don’t pack more than you will need.”

The room was so empty that there was a discomforting ego in it. I had packed all my stuff into boxed to keep the dust from damaging it in any way. Tomorrow at this very time, I would be in a plane flying to Canada.

I just finished college and thankfully I had great grades. Good enough grades to get me a scholarship to one of the best universities in Canada. At first, my dad didn’t really embrace the thought of sending me to live with my Uncle Ronald in another country. After a while, he realized it was necessary, that it would be good for me. It would make me stop coping with things in such a wrong way, or so he stated.

My Uncle has a family, that’s what worried me most. I didn’t really know much about them; all I knew is that he had a daughter and that his wife’s name was Angela. It’s very disturbing the fact that I will probably spend 4 years of my life with them and so far I don’t know enough to even make small conversation. I suck at dealing with people. I’m not shy, I’m a loud person but my mind always talks more than my mouth. I would rather observe than talk. It makes me learn more about people than I will ever learn by asking them questions about themselves. It also lessons my chances of saying something stupid in which I could regret afterwards.

After I finished packing all the things I’d be taking with me, I went downstairs to the kitchen. Tonight was my turn to cook and gladly I took a cooking course over the summer holidays; if not, my dad and I would probably end up in a hospital with food poisoning by the end of the night. I cooked what I knew best – Italian food. Pasta filled with different types of cheese, a succulent sauce and chicken cut into perfect strips. Have I mentioned I’m a perfectionist? Well, I am. It’s an awful bad habit but it could be worse. My mom always used to complain on how I take so long to do things because I always want it to be a step closer to perfection.

“You know, one day you will have to stop with this habit of yours, Kylie. You can’t spend so much time with little things in life, such as the decoration of a cupcake. There’s so much more to worry about!” Her words echo in my ear with a thousands of memories attached to the sound of her voice.

She was right, but I never liked to admit that to her, even though she knew she was always right.