Easter

Easter will make one year since I’ve seen you alive. You were carried in to the party. Your frame so weak and frail you could no longer walk. I took one look at you and it was if someone punched me. I pressed my back against the wall and tried to not collapse or worse cry.

After several minutes I made my way to your side.  I remember hugging you and as you reached for me watching your pants fall to the floor. I scooped them up and tried to cover our embarrassment with a joke about how you were taking your diet a little too far. 

How did this happen?

The rest of the day was a blur. I know a plate was made for you and pictures were taken.  I remember feeling myself spinning between a hurt so deep I couldn’t breathe and a rage so firey I scared myself. 

On the way home I relived the day a thousand times. Why did we all act like your appearance was normal? How did we manage to eat? You were so obviously malnourished. Why weren’t we telling you how much you mattered? That to lose you would be to lose our cornerstone? 

How did this happen?

That day was a turning point for me. Up to that time I had vacillated between polite distance- respecting dad’s need for privacy, deferring to his judgment- and being your advocate (albeit an unsuccessful one). That day I became frantic with the need to save you. I hounded dad to get you to a doctor. I scoured the internet for treatments. I cajoled, yelled, encouraged, fumed. 

Nothing changed except for you. You became even smaller. You retreated into yourself even further. You talked and cried to yourself. You stopped responding with anything close to appropriateness. We lost you for good two weeks later. 

When I look back on that time all I see is my failure.  Instead of fighting I should have been holding. Instead of searching I should have been comforting. I made so many wrong choices. 

I’m sorry, mama. I’m just so so sorry.