Every look between a mother and a daughter is a masterpiece. It conveys all of the language, all of the thought, all of the intention. Being close allowed Constance and I to communicate without speech. She knew my plan and I hers. We were as close as two people could be. In many ways, we were one. Both impatient. Both were tapping our toes with our hands on our hips as we waited for dinner to cook. Both gleeful. Both dancing for joy at the pure pleasure of life, pizza, play, reading. Spending any Saturday morning we could in bed, eating chips and veggie straws while reading in our pajamas. We let each other’s company keeping us cozy.
The loneliness without her is indescribable. Everyone else is a disappointment by degrees. Even those I love I can’t enjoy the same. They’re the poor man’s substitute, the knock-off version, the 1.0. They are everything but nothing because they aren’t her. No one can be.
I’ve started kissing her urn hello. I say, “Hi honey.” I say, “I love you.” I say, “I missed you.” I don’t know why I do it. I hope no one ever sees me talking to her urn. It seems too personal, too intimate to share. I know I should be stronger. I am not.