Page 32 of Hypothetical Heart
“Win,” Logan sighs, pulling me into his arms. “There’s not a correct timeline for when you have to get over your mom’s death because the truth is, you’re never going to get over it. I don’t think any of us will.”
I hate the thoughts that cross my mind, the ones that think maybe my mom’s death would have been easier if all of my friends weren’t so close to her.
Because yes, they all did their best to be there for me, but instead of having people to lean on, I had friends who were also toppling over because of her loss.
It wasn’t comforting knowing that all the kids I had grown up with were also hurting.
“You want to know what makes me the most upset?” I take a long breath, not wanting to say it out loud. “I’m not sure if I can remember what her voice sounds like.”
Logan looks down, like he’s afraid to admit he doesn’t either.
“I know that everyone says when someone dies, their voice is the first thing you forget, but I didn’t think it would happen this quickly.” My voice cracks as I try to keep my composure, but I’m not sure that’s possible when I see the look on Logan’s face. “I mean, who the hell forgets their own mom’s voice?”
“Winnie.” He tries to catch my attention, but his voice is muffled. The only thing I can hear is the sound of myself hyperventilating.
“I keep trying to remember, hoping that thinking about her will spark the sound to play through my head, but I can’t. I can’t remember, and it’s killing me on the inside.”
“Winnie, Win.” Logan’s grabbing my knees. “You need to calm down.”
“I, I—” I try to sayI can’t, but it doesn’t come out.
“You’re okay,” he tells me. “Just try to breathe.”
I close my eyes, gasping for air as sobs rack my body. It almost feels like I’m suffocating, drowning in my own tears.
The thing about grief is that it comes in waves—ones that feel as if they are all different shapes and sizes, coming from different bodies of water—and sometimes they hit all at once, and other times the tide clears and it feels like I’m going to be okay.
My mom dying is never going to go away. The pain is always going to be there, but sometimes, it shows how much I’ve grown. And while I would have liked for my mom to see that, her death has helped prove that good things can come, even after you think your life is over.
Yet, that doesn’t ever take away the visceral ache of wanting her back.
“I wish she was here so bad.” I eventually get the words out. “Fuck.” I may not swear much, but right now, it feels warranted.
“I know, I know,” Logan sighs, one of his hands rubbing up and down my back. “I do, too.” I lean further into him, his arms wrapping me up again.
“Do you think it’s ever going to stop hurting like this?” I ask as he pulls me into him.
His arms curve around my waist to where I’m halfway on his lap, and my head falls to his shoulder. I’m completely limp in his arms, no longer bearing any of my own weight.
“Yeah, I do,” he whispers into my hair. “Maybe not completely. There will always be moments where you’re going to miss her, but hopefully, there will be even more moments where you’re able to look back at all the happy memories you have with her.”
“I’m afraid offorgetting her,” I admit, and his hands sweep up and down my back in a comforting motion.
It’s something I’ve feared since the moment she died three years ago. Throughout her entire funeral, everyone told me she would be with me forever and I would always have the memories of her to keep me company.
Yet every day my memories with her get foggier and foggier, like they are slowly slipping out of my grasp.
“I quiz myself every night before bed, just to make sure I’m not forgetting some of the last moments I had with her. I replay the last conversation we had over and over in my head because I’m so scared.”
“Winnie, all of us absolutely adored your mom, and we all have amazing memories of her.” His hands grab my face. “Do you really think any of us would let you forget what an amazing woman you came from?”
I know there isn’t a world where the presence of my mom could be completely erased, and I’m grateful for Logan’s input, but I’m not sure it helps ease my anxiety any.
“And the great thing about memories is the way the important ones cement themselves into us.” He pulls out his phone, showing me a picture of me, him and my mom at Hagen’s Lake five years ago. It’s set as his homescreen. “Do you remember this day?”
“Of course I do,” I reply, smiling at the memory. “My mom took the two of us to Hagen’s lake all the time when everyone else was busy. She loved going swimming with us.”
“Want to know what I remember about this day?” His smile matches mine. “There were these giant waves, which don’t happen often, and your mom went and bought us those foam surfboards so that we could pretend to ride waves when in reality we were just getting dragged under.”
