Paris Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems.
In the summer after his sophom...
At least, that's what my mom used to say. Every day is a new day - a day to spark a hobby, a day to smile, a day to initiate a relationship, a day to do something I've never done before. Still, is there one good reason to do something new? Is there one good reason to catch up on schoolwork, to try and fix things with my father, to fall in love? I don't know if there really is. Life is the biggest bully out there. It keeps punching you in the gut and knocking you down. It hits your friends and insults your dreams. And all you can do is stand there, helpless, like an innocent flower, swaying in the wind.
In a way, we're all flowers. We all have different colors, different sizes, different shapes, yet we are all fighting the same battle. We're all swaying in the wind, unable to change our destiny. We may have a plan for the future, but plans can always change. Life can swoop in and carry the flower's dreams away, like fallen petals soaring out of reach.
Some flowers are more delicate than others, and I can't help but think that I'm one of the most delicate flowers of all. I wish I was tougher. I wish I had more stamina. There are many people in the world, many flowers, who have all the energy in the world. They can get blown down by the wind, stung by a bee, and still grow back all their petals. Some of them come out better than before. Maybe someday I'll sprout new petals, I'll be happier. I highly doubt it. That bubbly, jovial person that my mom knew and loved is gone.
Standing firm in my belief that there is no point to do something new with my life, I put on a pair of jeans, slip on a cozy orange sweater, and make my way into the forest. I don't really have a favorite color, but I enjoy wearing colors that match the seasons. With the leaves fading from green to all kinds of shades of autumn - crimson red, musty yellow, and radiant orange, I figured I should wear something that blends in with the setting.
I look forward to exploring the forest. It's one of the only things that still gives me some sort of enjoyment. Summertime is winding down, and almost every day I make my way through the trees with a notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. It's normally warmer during the summer mornings in Northern California, but today it's a bit chilly. The breeze is really kicking in, but I manage to use a rock to keep the notepad open. I get my best inspiration outside. With the air running past my body and the sound of birds chirping through the air, all sorts of creative ideas cascade through my mind. Poems of nature, poems of love, poems of loss. Despite not wanting to try anything new, I really want a boyfriend. I guess I wouldn't be opposed to meeting somebody, especially if they were able to make the days feel less shitty. On a good day, when my meds somehow work "better" and I feel stable enough to leave the house, I could really enjoy going on a date with a guy. Except, I don't have many good days. Most days I do nothing but write half-decent poetry while balling my eyes out because I see some tree that reminds me of my mom or some food that reminds me of my mom or some person who reminds me of my mom.
Basically, if I'm not writing poems I'm thinking about my mom.
I try to think about anything else, but all I can think about is how nice it would be to have her next to me, to have her making dinner, to have her holding me in her arms. Is that too much to ask?
I've never been more honest with someone than my mom. No matter what I said, she'd still love me. I never got the chance to come out to her, but I know she would have supported me no matter what. She may have read her Bible like crazy and sang church hymns while making lasagna for Bible study, but she was the most accepting person I ever knew.
Yet another reason I miss her.
Once again, I'm thinking about my mom. Every time I think about the good times I immediately remember all the bag things too. The image of how cold and distant she appeared those last few days in that sterile hospital bed. The lingering scars on her face. Her broken arm in that uncomfortable sling. Her poor neck immobilized in that nasty brace.
It was an early morning in July. My mom had this strange feeling, a premonition that something terrible was going to happen. She claimed to have a gift of sensing when things were about to go wrong. I always wrote it off as nothing more than some silly superstition, but now, I am not so sure she was wrong.
I didn't see her leave. It was early and she didn't want to wake me. She had plans to meet one of her friends for morning coffee at the local café. On her way to visit Madame Ines, some asshole looking at his cell phone ran a red light and smashed right into the driver's side of my mom's car. When the paramedics arrived at the scene of the accident, they declared the man who had run the red light dead upon impact. As for my mom, she fell into a coma that lasted for an entire week, which she spent in a stuffy gross hospital room, with pink carnations bringing the only ray of color to the foul place. Then, as if a miracle happened, my mom woke up. And for a moment, I almost believed that maybe there was someone up there looking down on us, sending miracles our way. However, it was hardly a miracle. A week later, my mom passed away in that same dingy old hospital room, breathing that same stuffy hospital air. That was no way for her to go. That's no way for anyone to go. And yet, despite all the pain and suffering she went through, despite the fact that she was practically brain dead when she passed, my mom still asked me to read passages from her Bible and made me pray with her. I couldn't believe she actually prayed to a God who put her in this place, who let her get in that car accident and let her experience so much anguish.
Maybe having a boyfriend, or merely a friend, would give me some sort of distraction from thinking about that short but challenging time in my life. Never again will I think about my mom without being reminded of her time in that awful place. Hopefully, someday I'll be able to look back and just think about the times she hummed me lullabies or made me my favorite sugar cookies. But that day is not today. Today I'm still remembering the stifling white washed hospital room, her sickly pale drawn face, the look of terror and anguish in those big brown eyes, and her ice-cold hands holding mine as her soul vanished and her lips mumbled, "goodbye."
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