I used to call it the “month of mourning” … mostly because I grew up a comic book nerd, and I love alliteration.

You see, my mother died of cancer in June 2006, one month and one day before her 65th birthday. To say that kind of a loss leaves a mark isn’t necessary. Many of us have lost parents: Biological. Adopted. Foster. Family friends. Stand-ins, you know? “Uncle” Marvin. “Aunt” Eleanor. Whomever we looked up to, whoever we loved, we’ve lost them. And when I lost mine, I can say I lost the one person who loved me unconditionally. I lost someone I could never get back, a feeling of security and strength, and, of course, love that I would never get back.

So back in the day, when that particular month and a day rolled around, I went out. And then I went out some more. And some more. And some more. Clubs. Bars. House parties. I’d flood myself with liquor, anything to dull the pain of remembering that she was gone.

Those first few years in particular were rough. I still remember the dreams. At first, she’d be there, only to disincorporate as if she were made of sand.

We cremated her. Apparently, my subconscious believed in literal processing back then.

Next came the conversations, the adventures, those moments where I forgot she was gone. She was here. With me. We laughed. We talked. We shared. We were together again. Seriously, I could fool myself into thinking she was still alive.

Until my alarm went off.

And then, in between that moment when the dream fades and the eyelids tighten, that moment when I would float back up, just before reaching the surface, I would remember. She was gone. And then I would take another moment to relive that loss. Again.

Me and mom. Ca. 1983–84. Ta-da.

So I pushed it all away. The feelings. The conversations. The dreams. And how do you do that? By drinking until you pass out. Because, honestly, at that point, the brain’s a little too busy for another Malcolm D. Lee movie starring me and my mom. No imagery. No immersive…