SUMMER FEVER

9 | NOW

SUMMER VAN DOREN

Sleeping is becoming more and more pleasant.

Perhaps it's because you're not actually dead and you're not awake, so it's a win-win situation. It's like being dead without the commitment. An open relationship with death. Death with benefits.
You drift into a space where time doesn't matter, where the worries and stresses of the day melt away. It's a haven of silence and peace, a shelter where reality takes a backseat and the subconscious mind can roam free.

Yet even in the safety of sleep, the guilt and shame linger at the edges of my consciousness. The memories of my mom and dad, and the final moments I couldn't share with them, haunt me like restless spirits. I replay those days over and over, wishing I had been there more, done more, said more. The regret gnaws at me, a silent, persistent reminder of what I feel I've failed to do. In the quiet of the night, their absence is a heavy presence, a void that sleep cannot completely fill.

I long for their forgiveness, yet I also seek to forgive myself. Sleep does offer a brief escape, but even in my dreams, their faces appear, and the ache resurfaces. Each night, I hope for a moment where their faces bring comfort instead of pain, where their memories can rest gently in my heart instead of tearing it apart.

I wander through the dreamscapes, seeking slivers of them, piecing together moments I missed. In these intangible encounters, I try to say the words that went unsaid, to be present in the ways I couldn't be when it mattered most. Regardless, even in my dreams, the weight of my absence is palpable, a constant reminder of the moments I can never reclaim.

The days turn into weeks, and I find myself drifting through life in a haze, moving from one task to the next without really feeling present. I mask my pain with smiles and small talk, keeping the darkness at bay as best I can.

One day, as I'm sorting through old photographs, I come across a picture of my parents at a family gathering. They look so happy, so carefree, and for a moment, I'm transported back to those days of laughter and warmness. The memory is bittersweet, a reminder of what I've lost but also of the love that still lingers in my heart.

Determined to understand my mother better and to find some explanation, I decide to delve deeper into her life. I begin by searching through her belongings, hoping to uncover clues about her state of mind and the reasons behind her decision. I start with her journals, which I find tucked away in the bottom drawer of her bedside table. Sitting on the floor of her old bedroom, the smell of her perfume still faintly lingering in the air, I carefully open the first journal. Her handwriting, neat and precise, brings tears to my eyes. It's like a window into her soul, each entry a print of her thoughts and feelings.

As I read, I discover a side of my mother I never knew. She wrote about her dreams and fears, her joys and sorrows. I learn about her struggles with depression, something she kept hidden from everyone, even me. Her words are raw and honest, a testament to the struggles she fought every day on her own.

One entry, in particular, stands out:

"I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of sadness. Every day is a struggle, and I can't seem to find a way out. I love my family so much, but the darkness inside me is overwhelming. I don't want to burden them with my pain. I hope they can understand and forgive me one day."

Tears stream down my face as I read her words. I realize how much pain she was in, and how courageously she tried to shield us from it. I continue to read, each journal entry offering a glimpse into her inner world, her thoughts and feelings laid bare on the pages.

While sorting through a box of old papers in the attic, I find a folder labeled "For My Dearest Daughter." Inside, there are letters written to me. In these letters, she shares her thoughts, her love, and her hopes for me. She writes about her own struggles and her wish that I never feel the same kind of despair.