i will cry for love

There’s 15 minutes left on the washing machine. I’m in bed in a towel, I realized all of my loungewear / pjs were in my laundry basket. All I hear is the cycle of the water and the soap swishing and swirling around, back and forth. Back and forth.

There’s dishes in the sink from dinner. I couldn’t think of anything to make - so I bought a chicken skewer from Farmboy and and potatoes and chopped up everything in a frying pan with a little bit of olive oil and lemon. I put it on a bed of lettuce and thought - okay. A little bit different than my lettuce wraps, lower effort - but they’ll do.

There’s two empty take out bags on my counter. One is thai, one was from a favourite Italian restaurant. I’m proud to say this - I don’t usually order in a lot. I like my skincare, I like my makeup, my beauty products and little summer outfits - but where I really reign in my spending is on food. OFM always told me that I’m a good shopper. And it’s true. I’ll give myself a budget at Farmboy - and I always end up with money leftover.

Chicken skewer: $5.

Lemon: $.99

Lettuce: $2.99

Potatoes: $2.99

This makes me feel less guilty about whatever money was spent on eating out. But I realized something. It’s that time of the year where I am needing to be softer with myself. My energy slows. Sometimes, I feel like I’m coming down with something. I can’t be overwhelmed with tasks and to-do’s. The minute, the “human” tasks - I let fall through the window.

Instead, I’m curled under my duvet at 9:52, waiting to pop my pjs in the dryer. Waiting until 10:30 to take my sleep gummies. Pine salve on, to combat whatever my body is fighting against.

I’m in a state of remembering.

-

I realized something else. In 8 years, I haven’t had to say the words “Happy Mother’s Day” out loud to anyone, because, my mother is dead.

I always feel a tad awkward putting the word “Happy” before Mother’s Day, because it does not feel happy to me. The day is, to be honest, a bit haunting. It also is the day before the anniversary of her passing - so, sometimes, the days feel blurrier. Heavier. Emptier.

I used to beat myself up about this. “But the sun is shining.” I’d take out my gratitude notebook and furiously write down 10 things I’m grateful for - in hopes of this mood passing.

But do you want to know a huge trigger of mine?

When someone says, “don’t cry.” I remember when I left Rome at the beginning of last year, after telling PN that I always had feelings for him, and after getting told off by the MATF because he always had feelings for me (lol) - I spent a good two weeks in Milan crying daily. It wasn’t like - I can’t get out of bed for two weeks cry. But it was - cappuccino, stroll, shed a few little tears, shop, go home, make dinner, do some work, cry, do my skincare routine, and go to sleep.

It was grief. It was my heart opening, and the universe putting an “in-this-reality” time frame on it.

Grief, I’ve learned - is beautiful. Sadness is beautiful, too. It’s a way for everything to co-exist. And ignoring the sadness, tucking it all away in a tiny box with a bow, hiding it underneath our beds, and trying to list off all of the tangible things we’re grateful for - these days, feels performative.

In Milan, I cried for the ending. For the grand finale of a transformative chapter closing. I wouldn’t see PN’s furrowed brow and tattooed frame behind the bar anymore. Safety. Comfort. A staple when I moved to Rome. The first character. And one of the first men who I let see me, see all of me - immediately.

It was tears of remembering, tears of “what’s next?”

Tears of “what ifs?”

Tears of “maybe in another life.”

-

I saw my dad for dinner this past Sunday. After two dirty martinis, I told him that I envied him.

He looks suprised. “Really? Why?”

“You were with her for her last moments.”

He looks down and nods.

“It was like…a finale.”

A finale.

And as I repeat the word “finale” in my mind, I immediately think of the old bar around the corner. I think of that snowy Sunday evening in January. I think of how me and OFM had the entire place to ourselves. Our own little world, a space to remember how long we had known each other. “Eight years.” A space to honour the different paths our lives took. And amongst all of the change, who we grew out of and who we grew into - the same feelings we had for each other, all of those years ago - hadn’t left.

That’s the thing with love. The universal “in-this-reality” timeframe, or those Tower moments. Those endings we didn’t (or did) see coming.

They’re almost contradictory. Because love doesn’t have a finale. Maybe human relationships do. But one of the most beautiful things in the world, is knowing that there is someone out there, in all of the universes, and all of the galaxies, who still sees you.

And someone out there who still cares.

-

It is now 8:30 on Tuesday morning. I’m still curled up under my white duvet. My body still feels sore. I can feel something ache in the back of my throat. And I have a suspicion that once Mother’s Day passes - the physical symptoms of grief might disappear.

This week, I will honour a finale. I will stay in bed for a little bit longer. I’ll order take-out if I’m too tired to venture out to Farmboy. I will remember. I will cry. I will listen to my favourite songs, and I will listen to your favourite songs. I will cry for the time that we have lost. The shift in reality, and the unpredictable changes we ensued because of it.

But mostly, I will cry for the time that we had. I will cry out of love.

And I will cry for love.

Emily