Palpitations
Everything is not fair, mom. Being left behind sucks. It’s just not right that it was just yesterday when we were moving into the house in Brookside. Now I’m packing it up. This is not fair.
I remember you got the house so that we “would always want to come home.” Even if you lived in the old house in Castle Oaks, mom, we still would have come. It wouldn’t matter. You were the sole reason we returned to Stockton when we did.
I cannot even put into words how ripped up I feel inside. I’m so tired that I feel like crying but nothing will come out. All I feel is immense, jabbing pain everywhere — in my head, my sides, my heart.
“You can always come home, here. You will always have your own room, your own bathroom. I will cook for you, and you have your space here.”
I avoid the thought of Christmas as much as possible. That always does me in. We would set up the fake Christmas tree together and then you’d do the decorating. I always brought out the heavy boxes so that you wouldn’t have to, and so you could look through the decorations.
This was home base, with mom on site. Mom went home to her real home, and so now the earthly base is being dismantled.
