It isn't empty, I just store things in it. A dresser full of oil and acrylic paints and brushes. No, I do not use them anymore. My penance for my life here is to stop all the useless art that I once imagined was a steppinstone to knowing god. It wasn't enough, just a few small glimpses we are all allowed into what is called the heart of god.
what a waste of resources. The paintings sit in the basement , ready to be thrown into a bonfire in my mind.
It is not enough.
Yes, I said penance, because despite all of my profoundly ridiculous assumptions that I would find god here in this place, I never did or will. That is, to find both my sons. To find god would be to find my sons.
This place is too dark. Flat. The oohs and ahhs and awe fell away like a jigsaw puzzle being tossed into the air. The pieces were forever lost, it was not possible to put it together again.. Perhaps my childlike vision was blinded. My ears are now deaf to birdsong. I once clung to what is called beauty, but I now realize it was naive, to cling to this , well, no. My sons were destroyed in this realm, and I give this place no 4 star review anymore. I wish I were 5 years old again, before I knew I was not in heaven.
Oh, it is not like I did not try and dive deeply into finding my first son. I did dive, to the deepest part of my being. I almost succeeded, too, but the devilish demons that inhabit this theater voted a unanimous NO. After my second son , I finally folded and collapsed like an ancient manuscript, pages of words all crumbling like dust in my hands, that was it. I am old, very old now. An old tree breaks after a second hurricane hits.
I still inhabit the house, the town, where my sons stopped breathing . No point in running away, I discovered there is no place to run. It is always with me, the days and days of motherhood, the never ending absolute joy of loving them from the moment they freed their bodies from mine, until the last time I saw them take their last breath. That first breath, crying, I wonder why we cry when we leave our mother's body.. It was so warm inside me, where I could shelter them completely with my whole self, as they slept inside me. I fed them and sang to them and still, they cried to go back when I finally set them free to breathe. Why can't I set them free to not breathe. I am not enlightened.
The spare room has no purpose, except to house books and canvases that will never be painted. I lay where my son died and wonder what he saw , how he felt when he fell asleep, did he feel anything , did my first son feel his heart stop, did my second son feel the cold wash over him. I cannot dismiss these thoughts, I cannot pretend they do not torment me every second. The precious children who I carried in my arms, the babies, the little boys, the darlings, my greatest achievements of my existence here...gone. Just. gone.
Stop. Right there. I have already heard from scores of human beings that they are "WITH GOD, GOD NEEDED THEM, THERE IS NO DEATH, LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE, JUST TURN TO GOD, YOU DON'T HAVE FAITH, THEY ARE ALWAYS WITH YOU, STOP ATTACHING YOURSELF, BLAH BLAH BLAH"
Okay. I know. I have heard you. But I am not you, and you are not me. And unless my sons show up glowing like the mfucking SUN and stand in front of me and tell me they are OK, they are HAPPY, they are BLISS, until that fcking day , your words fall on deaf ears. It is just. words. To make you feel better, because you cannot even fathom the thought of watching your children be taken away in black plastic body bags and knowing those beautiful bodies will be chopped up in a pathology lab and then burned in a furnace.
Ironic, really. What was the point of all the rocking them to sleep, singing to them, fixing their boo boos, throwing baseballs, watching them play, pushing them on swingsets, making sure they were cuddled and felt safe, years and years of devotion to their well being, being silly, hugging, laughter, days flying by and your only focus was to love them more than one could possibly love anyone.
Is that it, then? You are left broken, decaying, close to the end of this whole realm of existence in full cold hearted guilt ridden unrelenting self mutilating purgatorial shit...a cesspool of it, poisoning you with an intravenous drip every day of what could I have done , and why was I such a shitty mother.
Oh, sure, you tell me I was not a shitty mother. Well, prove it. I cannot even atone for the WISH I WOULD HAVE DONE THIS WISH I WOULD HAVE DONE THAT....it is too late now.
Instead, even the lowest maintenance in this dimension is much too high maintenance. What a waste of time, oh, good, the rugs have been vacumned, the windows in the house are clean, she actually fed herself some food, she watered the flowers, she actually changed her clothes. Just to reach that level of existence training required a monumental push of fortitude. Things , things, things that were dismissed as easy become heavier than that goddamn rock Sisyphus was trying to push . Just remembering to brush her teeth. Every movement requires planning. What used to be a toss off is now a toss up.
What is so important about a clean rug anyway. Who cares. Go back to bed, maybe hiding under the covers will keep you ...NOPE, that does not work either. Your prefrontal cortex goes into overdrive and the SHOULD HAVE WOULD HAVE !! screams at you even when you BEG like poor Job to make the thoughts just disappear, the boils of self destruction come anyway and eat you up.
Distraction. That works. It seems to be used widely, a somewhat helpful and worldly drug used by pretty much the entire population of the earth's humans. But, not for long, even if you have your television channel's volume set to 100 percent , the thoughts come back and every movie is as bland and unimportant as the next. You do not cry anymore, there is no point.
Everything is bland. Tasteless. You suddenly envy people who have no memories. You have read all the books, you have even met their authors. Eating becomes a necessary chore. You stay hidden, because if you leave the house, people might expect you to be someone you no longer are.
You just cannot fake it anymore.
Disclaimer to this whole rant is that one of my three sons is still walking around, using a body, I can SEE him, his kindness and gentleness shine brightly , he is the perfect ending to the dreams I had once for all three of them. He is happily married, in love, a tremendously good man, husband , and father.
Perhaps I cling to that, yes, I KNOW I cling to that. Oh, so I did right by him, it seems, or at least he says so. But it is so tenous now, so fleeting as I wander with aimlessness into SHE IS GOING TO DIE SOON territory. Or the overwhelming fear of losing him , would the universe be kind enough NOT TO PULL THAT SHIT AGAIN?
I doubt I will find god here , the god my two sons know now OR SO EVERYONE SAYS TO ME WHENEVER THEY PREACH TO ME.
In short retrospect, I do FEEL it when I hug my one son here and my grandson. A taste of it. Some form of love that leaves this earth behind and lifts me ever so gently into a soft realm.
I should count my blessing that I have that.
