I Owe My Mama An Apology

Hey Mom. We’ve had more conversations on my Substack than the entire 25 years we shared in life. Ok fine, they’ve been one-sided convos but who cares. I’m really glad to talk to you. 

It’s been a while. 

I remember when was I young and would slouch, you’d quickly run your finger up my back to make me straighten up. The week you passed away, I felt that same familiar feeling up my back. I was hunched over (crying all over your clean sofa, sorry ma) while trying to comprehend that you no longer existed

And then, I felt it. But it wasn’t just a feeling - it was you. 

It scared me. It scared me to the point that I screamed at you to never do that again. And Mama, you listened. I haven’t felt your presence since that day. I didn’t mean for you to leave forever, ever - I just wasn’t prepared to know you in that way yet.

You’ve been quiet, it makes me wonder if you watch over me?

But that’s not why I’m here. 

I owe you an apology, Mom.

I hated that you smoked cigarettes. I hated it so much that when I turned 18, I threatened to start smoking if you didn’t quit. I wanted you to be healthy and live a long life.

You laughed in my face and offered to buy my first pack. 

You gave no damns. 

As an adult with my own daily habit of Ativan, weed and alcohol, I understand your life more. I understand why you started each day with a cold Budweiser from the freezer and a fresh pack of Belair cigarettes. 

You were in pain.

This life shit is hard. And with a kid? That you didn’t want? Chile please. 

That was your attempt to survive, even if it killed you slowly. 

Karen Diane Harris, I honor you. 

• Thank you for caring for me even when you could barely care for yourself. 

• Thank you for waiting at Blockbuster (for hours) for a copy of Adventures in Babysitting.

• Thank you for showing me how to turn a car, a basement, an extended stay motel or any space we stayed in, into a home. 

• Thank you for teaching me about real music with your impeccable collection of vinyl. 

• Thank you for the healing work you did in the hopes that my own life wouldn’t end up in the same cycle of suck. 

I always say that if there is an afterlife, I’m ok if we don’t ever see each other. 

My reasoning was that if you’re actually happy there, then ain’t no way I want to ruin that for you. I only seemed to add to your unhappiness here. 

But now, I want to see you. I really, really want to see you. I want to hug you and kiss your face and thank you and apologize and lay in your arms, then hold you in mine and look at you and braid your hair and hear your voice and…

…I want to see every piece of who you are. 

I don’t know if you’ve watched my own life, but I want you to see who I am too. 

You raised a decent human.

As the ho’oponopono prayer says: 

I’m sorry. 

Please forgive me. 

Thank you. 

I love you. 

I miss you, Mom. I’ll see you again one day (but not too soon.)

Your kiddo,

Robin