welcome to the club
subconsciously perhaps i have gathered these women around me. conversations happen, occasionally while sitting cross legged on couches, sometimes by skype. email confessions. random texts of love and support. there was no entrance exam, no fees, no secret handshake. we simply found ourselves circled around each other like orphans hungry for what was missing. this is the dying mothers club. and we hate it. none of us want to be in it. but we are thankful that others are there to bear witness.
how do i do this again?
it’s the most supportive, honest, bare fucking truth of a club i’ve ever known. a hodge podge of beautiful souls mourning grieving aching this loss that comes too soon. and laughter. there is laughter. a sense of humor like no other. it saves me to be raunchy and swear like a sailor. it’s a necessary evil when discussing such things as death. i feel most understood when i am in the confines of the dying mothers club. nothing is too heavy, nothing is too much, nothing is everything and it never scares us away. if anything, it helps us to see the beauty that hides in the decay. this reminds me that i will continue standing, out of feistyness or sheer stubbornness, even when gravity becomes too much and threatens to lay me flat.
we give each other the weight of our words. our daily stories of struggle. we carry the heaviness for one another brick by brick. it lightens the load, even if just for the moment. we are all constant reminders to each other, from the quiet of our minds, that we are not alone in this. that life is fucked up. that life is beautiful. that life is humorous. that life is achingly sad. and that life continues through it all.
we are a handful of women, a circle. like colored glass collecting light on windowsills. reflecting and refracting beauty and pain, chips and blemishes. age and history, all in one mighty collection.