I wrote my college entrance essay about my grandparents’ funerals.
But it wasn’t really about my grandparents.
It was really about hearing my father cry.
But it wasn’t really about that either.
Because those things don’t get you into college.
And when I got my acceptance letter, handwritten at the bottom,
Smith is perfect for you.
When I think of what I’ve done over the past four years.
I get a little sad that I still struggle to define my faith. My place in eternity.
In the wake of tragedy.
In spite of my mother.
That it’s still what I write about.
I’m still weary of people wearing crosses.
Scared of holy trinities and wooden crucifixes.
Part of me thinks that I became an Art History major so I could finally tell my mother that
it was all bullshit.
That Michelangelo didn’t believe in God
And was just a big homo trying to make a living.
I can point to the framed pictures in this Conference Center’s lobby;
Tell you that their patron, the Duke de Berry was a big womanizer
Who liked to look at peasant’s genitals.
See, right there, you can see that man warming his penis by the fire.
For Christmas my mom bought me Dan Brown’s latest book.
Which was real shitty, but I liked the part about the power of the mind:
Collective consciousness as having impact and weight and power.
Apparently somewhere, someone is measuring the physical weight of the soul.
But, I guess it all comes back to my mother.
Because I’m a woman and apparently I’ll never get over being my mother.
And not wanting to be my mother.
My mother’s children.
The pressure to have my mother’s children.
Here mom, meet this woman
I’m sleeping with.
Closure must exist, Dean Mahoney says. People talk about it like it’s real.
Like you can put it in a box. Wrap it up and deliver it to your ex-lover’s house.
Flaming and smelling of shit.
Closure must exist after you see your loved ones die.
Because I was there. For every part of it.
And wrote about it in my college essay and will graduate in May.
But there is never really closure because nothing ever really stops.
Or starts. Or ends.
Except lives. And relationships.
Novels end. So do songs.
But I can keep retelling. Revisiting.
Unwrapping the boxes.
Using your deoderant.
Wearing her necklace.
Thinking of all the ways I could tell my mother how important she is to me.