No Tears Left To Cry

She was there. We said goodbye. She never came back. I cried. I balled so hard until I didn’t have any tears left to cry. However my sadness continued to haunt my soul. I sat in the bathtub asking myself why? Why would this happen? Nothing makes sense, I told them. Everything was fine until it wasn’t. This was the day my mom died, I recollected, and this was the day my life had no clear meaning. I was nine, quite a few years ago, but I remember the day so clearly. I don’t even bother trying to forget, nothing will let me forget. I will not let myself forget. Whether it be for her honour or my own sanity, the movie will be on repeat in the back of my mind. Except I do forget sometimes. I store the memories in a little cupboard of truths, sealed ever so tightly that I can open it only when I’m ready. Because this little cupboard is where I store all my truths that are too hard to handle when I’m alone with my thoughts. 

I find bike rides peaceful, serene and exhilarating all at once. It strengthens my legs with every push and rotation of the pedal. It quickens my heart beat so endorphins flower over my mind and body. I am addicted to the thrill. The wind in my hair, the trees passing by fast enough for me to feel like I’m flying, but slow enough still that I can see every detail of the branches and the leaves. The feeling of having to catch my breath after a tough ride lifts my mood like a drug that I never want to stop using. How can one thing make me so happy when that same thing makes me so sad?. None of it makes sense, I keep telling them. So I cry. I cry and sulk and cry some more, until I have no tears left to cry. 

  I see her picture every day. The one on my bookshelf where she’s mid leap, her legs spread wide into a V. She was a teenager just like me. Insecure and critical in her gymnastics leotard, putting on a face for the camera. Maybe she was truly really happy then. She loved the challenge. But maybe she was hiding in that body as well, too afraid of not looking good enough for her peers. I kind of look like her, actually. Our blond hair, strong, built shoulders that can only belong to an athlete, our round face and peachy tanned complexion. Everyone says I look like her too. They say I remind them of her. The way I move my hands when I talk or the way I smile when I’m embarrassed. It all reminds them of her. You are a spitting image of your mother, they say. If only I reminded myself of her. I don’t remember much about her anymore. At least not any pure memories that aren’t twisted and influenced by photographs. To remember her voice is like trying to remember that kid across the classroom's voice. The one you never hear speak. Trying to remember the feel of  her Goodnight kisses is like trying to remember the feel of your childhood blanket. You think, assume, you know how it feels, but in reality, you have no idea. So I cry. I cry and weep and cry some more until I have no tears left to cry. 

Every which way I look, I see her. I see her in the warm, beaming sun. I see her in the glistening lake water. I see her in the woman running across the street. The woman that has the same curly blonde hair from the pictures I have in my scrapbook. The woman who was running with her blue reflective jacket and jet black leggings. The woman who is no taller than five feet three but who’s presence dominates the world around her as if she were a skyscraper. Except it’s not really her. She’s not here anymore, I remind myself. You can’t see something that does not exist any more. It’s not really her! I yell. It can’t actually be her, she’s dead!. So I cry. I cry and sob and cry some more until I have no tears left to cry. 

But then I open the cupboard. It takes a forceful pull to break the seal and I open it just a little. I let the light creep into the dark hidden cube where all my darkest truths lay. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the overwhelming emotions that will hit me like a dump truck. (That’s a little ironic.) Except they don’t come. Or more so, they don’t hit me hard, the emotions fill me with joy and wholesomeness. I creep in a bit more. The memories flood me with a feeling so blissful that I cannot possibly describe it. Those monarch butterflies at the cottage, they were her. Those warm autumn breezes that felt more like hugs than gushes of wind, they were her. The distant but ever so present voice of her yelling my brother's name when he left all his toys out in the front entrance is not a memory from videos, but a memory from the time I spent with her. The ecstatic feeling I get when riding a bike, the safety I feel on the vessel, that’s her protecting me. Making sure I don’t come into the same fate that she did. Making sure I don’t take a wrong turn down the path along the highway like she did. We are closer now. Closer than we have ever been before. And it’s all because of the cupboard. I have to let it open, let it breath if I want to remember. If I want to grieve. So I take the door away and smash it into a million little pieces so that the cupboard can never be closed again. And I thank the universe for giving me her spirit so that she can be closer to me, closer than anyone ever could be in their physical form. I thank the universe for giving me the signs of her presence that I was too naive and broken to acknowledge before. And lastly, I cry. I cry and smile and cry some more until I have no tears left to cry.