Something They Can Never Take Away [Lams One-Shots]

Mother's Day

Alex sat at his desk. He felt empty. The glow of the lamp in front of him was mesmerizing and he stared blankly into it, trying to remember her. He shut his eyes, trying to hear her voice again, trying to feel her comforting touch, trying to imagine her warm, enveloping embrace.

He barely even noticed when a tear trickled down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.

I'm sorry, was all Alex could think. He leaned over his desk and gave into his emotions, sobbing messily into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Anguished, desolate cries racked through his body, his gasping sobs almost painful.

Why can't you be here with me now? Alex's thoughts raged despairingly, wildly.

If you were here right now, you could comfort me.

You could always comfort me...

A particularly loud, desperate, and raw cry escaped Alex. It clawed against his throat and made his ribs ache and he heaved a deep breath, whimpering into his own arms.

I just want my mom back.

Alex grabbed a tissue almost violently and, feeling ultimately miserable and vulnerable, wiped his nose and swiped his forearms vigorously against his eyes, trying to block the misery from washing over him in overpowering waves.

He grabbed a pen. What else was he to do?

Dear mom,

Alex barely got past the first two words before he began to break down again, tears streaming down his face. He just stared down at his paper, watching bleakly as his tears soaked into the paper, spreading and feathering outward.

Forcing himself to continue, he began to write.

He found that words, grief, and tears rushed out of him blindly without him having to think.

Mom. Momma. It's been such a long time since I said that. I don't remember the last time I did. I don't remember the last time I did a lot of things, either. And there's a lot of things that I thought I'd be able to remember but never will because they never even happened.

You said you'd teach me how to cook. You promised that you would show me how to start the stove, how to cut vegetables so quickly that your hands blurred, how to make food so warm and homely and cozy and utterly comforting. Instead I stood, silently, as I fiddled with the knob to get the fire started. I sat alone in the ER after I nearly cut my finger off attempting to slice a pepper. I spent so much money trying to find a cookbook that could yield the same perfect meals that you would serve me.

You tried to teach me piano. I always thought I hated it, but you were always so patient. I would yell at you and get so frustrated that I would cry. Almost every time. Instead of yelling back, you would sit close to me on the bench and place your hands over mine and help me play. You would write in the letters of the notes when I had trouble reading them. And you just wanted to teach me to love something that you loved so much growing up.

And there's nothing more I want than to be there again. I want to sit by your side again. I want to hold your hand again.

You always wrote me notes when you left to go somewhere. Even if you just went to take a nap. You knew how important writing was to me. I would write you notes and draw you pictures and you would write notes back. I was too small then to understand completely what you were writing to me, I just like to correspond with you. But you always reminded me to smile. You always said you were proud of me and you loved me.

And you always said how much you loved watching me grow up.

I remember you writing to me about how excited you would be to meet my boyfriend, and watch me graduate high school and go to college, and witness me get married.