Mourning

I don't like the person I AM when I AM with you.
I like the person I WAS when I WAS with you.

This whole day reminds me of a surreal dream of a drunken dawn at Kilkenny's, with nothing to clutch but a shot of Jäger poured by the Rubia Divina in person while El Negro lends a friendly shoulder for all my whining and complaining. In the background, an old Pink Floyd song soflty sifts throught the delicate netting of the dingy pub's soundsystem:

Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry
Momma's gonna make all of your nightmares come true
Momma's gonna put all of her fears into you
Momma's gonna keep you right here under her wing
She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing
Momma's will keep baby cozy and warm...

And I miss her and I want her to fly over and hold me and drink coffee with me at Genesis Café and share alfajores with me while we shop for scarves and talk about life. I want her to listen to me talk about last night and laugh and tell me I'm no good while bearing the biggest proud-parent smile I've seen. I want her to like the people I'm in love with - actually, just meeting them and being okay with their existence would do too. I want her in my life like before.

Today reminds me of the reason behind this morbid haze floating around the house. The "she" of my memory is not the "she" wearing the slippers I gave her for Mother's Day. The "she" my sister still sees is not the "she" who used to spend whole afternoons with me at the studio teaching me how to paint. The "she" I wanted there with me, living the best days of my life by my side, is not the "she" spilling hurtful words about myself and those I love.

So as I sit here in mourning, dressed in black from head to toe (yes, my brand new leather jacket is indeed part of it), another Floyd song dances in front of my eyes:

How I wish, how I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears
Wish you were here

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