My mind is a universe—boundless and expanding. Every star I need to shine has always burned within me, ancient and ancestral. Drugs and alcohol were thieves in the night, eclipsing my light and drowning my world in illusion. Tides of depression masqueraded as moonlit revelry—mushrooms blooming in my brain, whiskey rivers flowing recklessly to my eroded soul.
And now, I've traveled home from the dark side of the moon. Standing on solid ground, embracing the full spectrum of being alive—the nebula of joy, the black holes of fear, and the vast, beautiful in-between. All that is, all that was, and all that will be. Stretching into my experience on this Earth, no longer disguised by the hazy shadows of escape. My awareness is an asteroid burning in the sky—sometimes flickering, sometimes blazing, but always illuminating. With its warmth, I welcome every emotion that rolls into my kaleidoscope, from stormy meteor showers to colorful prisms of sunlight. I honor every sacred constellation, every piece of myself—even the ones that once felt too jagged to hold. What happens in the brain when it's time to say goodbye? When our body's story nears the end, is our mind the last to know? Are we in another place, dreaming of better days? Memories of precious moments passed. Visions of what beauty may come. If we go slow, do we hear the words at our bedside? Do our swan songs go unsung, sticking to the tip of our tongues? Where do our fleeting thoughts go? Thirty seconds after the final neurons fire and fizzle, does it all fade to black? Maybe our souls float free to shape shift into new forms. Perhaps our bodies simply rot to fertilizer. Or do our earthly vessels incinerate into specks of dust that scatter with the breeze as the trees breathe life into the world without us? The last word she said was, "Sara." Before she drifted back to sleep. Did she hear me say goodbye, or were my words too late? Does her spirit still guide me, or is every sign imaginary? She visited me in a dream a few nights ago, leaving these thoughts with me.
We were in a hospital room, but it was more of a five-star hotel. A very bright and white room, the polar opposite of the dim room she died in. The room was shared with a quiet, young girl there alone. The girl's bed was nestled nicely in the corner, while my Mom's was the focal point at the center of the room. Tidy and tasteful, a Virgo’s retreat. After a moment, I was called into the hall, where her doctor told me it was "time." In a bittersweet frenzy, she was free to go. It all happened so fast. When I returned with the stapled paperwork, my Mom was confused. Her blonde bang-covered brows furrowed over unsteady eyes. I could feel the weight of her emotions on me, the weight of another decision. She said, “I’m not ready.” Should she stay or should she go? Neither of us could decide, so we went to the restaurant, which was of course connected to her hotel suite. We sat together at a finely polished cherry wood bar. Stained glass lights warmed the air above our heads as we ate perfectly al dente rigatoni in thick tomato sauce. Making light of the situation, she asked our friendly waitress if she should stay. Almost like shaking a magic eight-ball for a solution. Softly, she said she couldn't make that decision. The night went on. Light and casual, forgetting the fate in front of us. Eventually, we paid our bill and pushed in our bar stools before heading back to the suite. As if she knew something we didn't, the hostess called the doctor to meet us in our room for our decision. When we got there, the young girl was gone without a trace. A moment later, an old woman was wheeled into her place. The old woman’s presence meant that my Mom’s bed had to be moved off-center, altering the perfect order and flow. I could feel that my Mom was worried and flustered. Without rhyme or reason, her sunny room with the bright-eyed girl had transformed into a cramped, uncomfortable closet with a strange and wrinkled old woman with sharp icicle eyes. This isn't the life she envisioned for herself. She didn't want any of this. Without any lingering hint of hesitation, she told me, “It’s time for me to go.” What happened inside when her body made up its mind? Did her brain sing a final swan song? Thirty seconds of light left for visions of better days. Bright blue youthful eyes, crisp white hotel sheets, a last dinner together. Was I dreaming of her last dream? |
Sara CifaniTrauma is not stored as a narrative with an orderly beginning, middle, and end. Writing WorkshopsArchives
April 2025
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