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...
It echoes in my mind and brings the nausea back instantly.
The room has gone dim, the only source of light emitting from my mom's glimmering frame floating in the corner. The sun must've set hours ago. She smiles ever so slightly as I look up, my body cocooned in the sheets. Me head pounds, the details from these past few hours fuzzy.
Then, I remember it all. The letter, Gray's trip, and all my fears. Everything crashes down on me, shattering me into jagged pieces of glass strewn out for the world to trample on.
My heart drops and an acidic gurgle sloshes around in my stomach. I bite back the nausea, refusing to throw up again. The bedroom wreaks of vomit - they yellow stain from earlier seeping into the carpet.
"How're you here?" I question. She's never appeared in my bedroom before. Only ever in my cemetery. No matter how many times I begged her to come back to the house with me, she said she couldn't.
"It was urgent. They made an exception," she explains, staring at me with her usual half smile. Her gleaming silhouette radiates a comforting aura, reminding me of all the pleasant moments we've shared.
Hurt dwells in her dark eyes. It'll take all the strength she has to say what's on her mind.
"You're stronger than you think," she pauses momentarily, the smile vanishing from her face. Sorrow dwells in her dark eyes. It'll take all the strength she has to say what's on her mind, "I should've never visited you like this. It's not healthy for you to keep reliving the past. I was selfish to enable your grief. All these years, I've been holding you back."
Though I know she's right, I don't want to believe it.
When I move to reply, my mom motions her transparent hand to stop me, "No more words my darling."
It's hard to accept that her continued presence in my life isn't healthy. Yet, if I want to turn the page and step into the next chapter of my life, I need to let her go. Otherwise, I may never become the person I'm meant to be.
For years I've remained in this unending cycle of grief because I couldn't find the strength to give her up. To truly accept she's gone and that nothing can change that.
"It's time for me to go."
With every ounce of strength I can muster, I crawl out of the bed and stumble toward her. If this is the last time I'll see her, I need to ask her a question.
"Did you know I was gay? I mean, before you died?"
My lips quiver as the word "died" leaves my tongue, the word feeling forbidden.
Her half smile returns, and I muster a smirk, frantically attempting to wipe away the tears forming in my eyes, even though I'm sure she notices them almost immediately.
"When you were young, you were so curious about the world. I made sure of that. I wanted you to feel comfortable exploring every aspect of life and taking chances. Your dad wanted that too, even though it may not seem like that now. We both wanted you to be the best version of yourself you could be. When you started middle school, I immediately noticed a shift. Anytime we asked you about crushes or dating, you would clench up and beg us to change the topic. If we talked about anything else, you were an open book, happy to overshare. I knew there was this magnificent part of you begging to be released. Maybe, at the time, you still didn't understand it yourself. Your dad wanted to say something. He suggested asserting a unified front that being gay was okay. But every time he brought up the idea, I shook it off. I thought it would be better for you to accept yourself on your own terms and for you to come out to us when you felt comfortable. To this day, I still have no idea if I made the right decision. Every day you stare out your window instead of exploring the world like the Paris I raised. You need to take chances. If you don't take chances, you'll spend the rest of your life withering away."
My mom's answer was unexpected, but it lifts my spirits and I'm beyond grateful to hear her declaration of love and acceptance. I wish she was still alive to guide me through this complicated and confusing period of my life, instead of me having to figure it out all on my own.
Perhaps I should heed my mom's advice and start taking more chances. After all, if my letter works, Gray may run into my arms and kiss me until I can hardly breathe. For once, an echo of hope rings in a world I once thought was hopeless. I'm letting go of the past so I can take hold of the future.
"Never forget how much I love you, Paris."
My mom reaches her arm out to me and, for a split second, I swear I can feel her icy hand physically grace my fingertips. A teardrop cascades down her transparent face as a shimmering vessel of light erupts from the floor and envelops my mom, illuminating my bedroom in a flash of light. In an instant, she vanishes, leaving me in the chill of the night.
In the aftermath of my mom's final visit, I understand how important it is to move on. The world doesn't wait for you to grieve and heal. It rushes passed you and, before you know it, takes advantage of years of your life that could've been filled with joy. I've certainly been guilty of that, confining myself to a world of ruin for so long that I started to believe I belonged trapped in a house, nowhere to go but my melancholy mind.
Although I can never forget the dreadfulness that day of the accident, or the despair of the last few moments we shared at her hospital bed, I can choose to stop focusing on the awful memories and start remembering the wonderful ones. Every Friday, my mom would drive me along the coastline in her bright apple red Ford Mustang with the top down. It was a vintage model from 1966, a gift from her dad. She and I loved watching the magnificent sunset while the wind blew in our faces, making our black curls flutter in every which way. The wind seemed to blow all my problems away, assuring me that I could start anew next week. On the way home, we'd pick up a huge order of burgers and fries from In-n-Out. Then, before my dad arrived home from work, my mom and I would lay out the delicious feast on the dining room table and we would eat as soon as he walked through the front door.
My mom was a firecracker who surprised everyone with her radiant personality and bewildering philosophies on life. I'll never forget the evening she taught me how to read tarot cards or all the times she covered my cuts and scrapes in strange home remedies that always healed me, no matter how horrible they smelled.
Most of all, I'll never forget the legacy she left behind. She taught me to experience the world with open arms and never back down from a journey. Life isn't about calculated movements and meticulous plans. It's about unexpected maneuvers and risky endeavors. All her life, my mom took chances and never blinked at the opportunity to dive into escapades headfirst.
I'll live on for her. Everything I do, I'll do to make her proud. I'll follow in her bold footsteps. I'll let myself heal because that's what she would have wanted.
I'll let myself move on.
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