The Long Road to Heaven
With my head angled to the sky, I stand elevated on an observation deck far above the biggest city in America, away from the honking horns and dismal sirens. The lights extend as far as my peripherals can reach, and a cool breeze blows through my hair. I feel you all around me. I can’t see you, I can’t smell your perfume, and I most definitely cannot feel your warm embrace as I so wish I could. But you’re here.
Your warm, loving smile; your welcoming, motherly affection; your hilarious sass and constant laments about not being born into royalty. They’ve all left me. The tidal wave that so rudely interrupted my life washed them away and tried to erase their existence. But even in a state of emergency, even lost in the devastating depths of a crowd, even at the bottom of the sea, I still know you. From day one, I was your companion; you were mine. I will always cherish my memories of the gleeful hysterics in which we spent entire days in body shops because to you, navigating a car into a parking spot was a task on the same level as conquering the world. I will never forget the hours we spent driving down unfamiliar roads because neither one of us has ever been able to read a map to save our lives, and I shall never forget how we, with the infectious grace of the perfect partners in crime, would just keep on driving. To where, we didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The time always flew by, and whether we were lost for fifteen minutes or for four hours, it never seemed quite long enough. Somehow I never grew tired of hearing your stories about your imaginary chauffeur and your periodic, melodramatic sighs followed by the words, “I should have been a princess.”
You were wrong. You couldn’t have been a princess—because you were the queen. You were the queen and I was your prince. I should have gone on being the prince, should still be standing by your side and getting lost with you today. However, we must all grow up. I have grown up from the days of making sandcastles with you, trying on your shoes, and not worrying about anything in the world but the sun in the sky and the smile on your face. I am too old now, too mature to rely on you for everything. You’re too far away and I can’t see you. I can’t hear your laugh, can’t have you tuck me in, can’t see the dazzling, crashing waves of your eyes looking into mine.
You gave me the strength, the hope, and the faith to crush my obstacles and go anywhere I could wish for life to take me. You have gone now, and I know I must make you proud. I am what is left of you, your legacy. I am not grieving, weakened, nor depressed. After all, I’m the son of an almost-princess--what’s there to sulk about?
You were always constant, always there—a smooth, dignified rock of love and understanding. You still are. Of course, December can never be quite the same since I am no longer granted the pleasure of hearing the bells on your Christmas sweaters grow louder and louder as you approach me, always making me feel secure and at home. No, those sounds were deafened when you left. When I turn to your favorite chair to greet you as I walk in the door, light no longer reflects off your matching diamond earrings and necklaces and into my eyes. Instead, I see only a vast black hole in the room that no human, neither small and wide nor big and tall, could ever fill. Just as the silence of the world and the eerie emptiness of the room stop me dead in my tracks, I realize something. No, there are no bells, no diamonds, and no warm smile to embrace me. But I am still completely surrounded by your beauty. I see it everywhere I go and with every step I take. When the pressures of school have me stressed, you are there to calm me down. When I wish I could cry or scream or complain, you stop me. And when I fall to pieces on days when I cannot picture your face or imagine your voice, you come to remind me, to save me.
A mighty sixty-seven stories above the bustling yellow taxis and gleaming neon lights, it is here that I am closest to you. I feel as though I am extending towards the heavens, towards you. When I descend back into the depths of the city and into the clarity of real life, when I tuck myself in tonight, I know I will still be able to feel your smile and hear your words, “I love you, sweet potato.” And I love you too, Mom.
Your warm, loving smile; your welcoming, motherly affection; your hilarious sass and constant laments about not being born into royalty. They’ve all left me. The tidal wave that so rudely interrupted my life washed them away and tried to erase their existence. But even in a state of emergency, even lost in the devastating depths of a crowd, even at the bottom of the sea, I still know you. From day one, I was your companion; you were mine. I will always cherish my memories of the gleeful hysterics in which we spent entire days in body shops because to you, navigating a car into a parking spot was a task on the same level as conquering the world. I will never forget the hours we spent driving down unfamiliar roads because neither one of us has ever been able to read a map to save our lives, and I shall never forget how we, with the infectious grace of the perfect partners in crime, would just keep on driving. To where, we didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The time always flew by, and whether we were lost for fifteen minutes or for four hours, it never seemed quite long enough. Somehow I never grew tired of hearing your stories about your imaginary chauffeur and your periodic, melodramatic sighs followed by the words, “I should have been a princess.”
You were wrong. You couldn’t have been a princess—because you were the queen. You were the queen and I was your prince. I should have gone on being the prince, should still be standing by your side and getting lost with you today. However, we must all grow up. I have grown up from the days of making sandcastles with you, trying on your shoes, and not worrying about anything in the world but the sun in the sky and the smile on your face. I am too old now, too mature to rely on you for everything. You’re too far away and I can’t see you. I can’t hear your laugh, can’t have you tuck me in, can’t see the dazzling, crashing waves of your eyes looking into mine.
You gave me the strength, the hope, and the faith to crush my obstacles and go anywhere I could wish for life to take me. You have gone now, and I know I must make you proud. I am what is left of you, your legacy. I am not grieving, weakened, nor depressed. After all, I’m the son of an almost-princess--what’s there to sulk about?
You were always constant, always there—a smooth, dignified rock of love and understanding. You still are. Of course, December can never be quite the same since I am no longer granted the pleasure of hearing the bells on your Christmas sweaters grow louder and louder as you approach me, always making me feel secure and at home. No, those sounds were deafened when you left. When I turn to your favorite chair to greet you as I walk in the door, light no longer reflects off your matching diamond earrings and necklaces and into my eyes. Instead, I see only a vast black hole in the room that no human, neither small and wide nor big and tall, could ever fill. Just as the silence of the world and the eerie emptiness of the room stop me dead in my tracks, I realize something. No, there are no bells, no diamonds, and no warm smile to embrace me. But I am still completely surrounded by your beauty. I see it everywhere I go and with every step I take. When the pressures of school have me stressed, you are there to calm me down. When I wish I could cry or scream or complain, you stop me. And when I fall to pieces on days when I cannot picture your face or imagine your voice, you come to remind me, to save me.
A mighty sixty-seven stories above the bustling yellow taxis and gleaming neon lights, it is here that I am closest to you. I feel as though I am extending towards the heavens, towards you. When I descend back into the depths of the city and into the clarity of real life, when I tuck myself in tonight, I know I will still be able to feel your smile and hear your words, “I love you, sweet potato.” And I love you too, Mom.