Exposed and vulnerable. Her soft forehead was unhidden, a sight rarely seen even by herself. She was always so particular about her hair. All my life, she wore perfectly cut bangs. Framing her face with wisping pieces of blonde strands on the sides, everything exactly as it should be. She would spend hours in the morning, painting on her makeup, setting her hair with rollers like science. She said the bangs offset her long German nose. I called it her football helmet. The way she teased it to build volume and hairsprayed the layers to bring texture. A work of art fueled by Folgers, Coffee Mate, and Estee Lauder Cinema Pink lipstick stains on her mug.
The night her water broke in March 1992. Before she brought me into this world. Before going to the hospital, she took a full shower and put on her makeup like any other day. She wouldn't leave the house any other way. Flash forward, and there she was that day in October 2017. In the hospital again, exposed. Her bangs swept to the side. After she fell. After she shattered her pelvis on the kitchen floor, she didn't have time for hair and makeup. Despite all of the pain she endured leading up to that moment, I remember how pure her forehead looked in that stark hospital bed. Soft and untouched. No powder, no concealer. Most other things in that ICU room were so unnatural to me. Unreal. The monitor beeping with the last beats her heart would make. The plastic tube carrying the final breaths her lungs would take. In that sterile, almost lifeless room, her forehead is what I remember most. I kissed it when I said goodbye. I held her hand, noticing her thick veins. I admired the length of her elegant fingers, once smooth and youthful. The strength of her always pink nails. I held the hands that once bathed me in the hands that had recently bathed her. Looking back on this moment now, I know she would have wanted her bangs to be in their place. She would have wanted her makeup done. She would have wanted to go out in style. Just realizing this seven years later, I wish I had thought to do that for her then. I was only twenty-five, and I was losing my best friend. Far too soon. I was doing the best I could. I didn't know everything I know today. And what I know is that her bare forehead was beautiful. The veins on her hands were symbols of a life lived strong. She may have wanted her black mascara and pink lips before heading to the crematorium, but the universe had other plans. We come into this world, naked and exposed. Fresh and oblivious to all that we are. All that we will be. We leave this world gowned and tethered in bleached hospital sheets. Dehydrated and tired. And if we’re lucky, half-certain about all that we are. All that we will be. How frustrating and how beautiful. With death, we experience rebirth. A new unknown. Yet everything else remains as it was. The waves at the beach crash against the rocks. The seagulls fly across the sky. The world continues spinning with or without me or her or you. If everything else stays the same, why have I been living so differently? Why did I stop talking to her? Why isn’t she still the first to know? Her opinion mattered most to me. No one else compares even now. Her advice was my compass in life. She was everything to me. How have I gone all this time without telling her about how I've grown? Today, I decided to start. I got in the bathtub after therapy, and I told her that I'm a content director. I'm three years sober. I practice yoga. I travel every October in honor of her. I have a loving partner. This Christmas, I plugged in the tree we used to laugh about together. Nola interrupted a few times, crying for cuddles. Maybe she already knows all of these things. Maybe she is always with me, watching and smiling. Maybe she has been proud of me this whole time. Somehow, I know she heard me today. I know she is somewhere in some way. The window for communication is opening, bringing with it warmth and light. Taking the weight off the death. Inviting a rebirth of our connection in a spiritual sense. |
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