Almost Free

An intimate peek inside grief, loss, and freedom that is not free.

I’m free now. And freedom is not free.

I’m free to long for her annual birthday songs, sung sweetly in tune. I can no longer witness her dry humor, the way her words would surprise me with clarity when she also couldn’t remember an hour ago.

I’m free to travel without having plan A, B, and C for her care while I’m away. Free from the anxiety I felt knowing that I was the one she wanted to care for her.

I’ll never again feel her hand on my fevered forehead. I miss the way she worried over me.

I’m free from negotiating with her to go or stay home when going to dinner or the grocery store or down to the mailbox. I remember my thumping heart when I imagined her wandering off if I left her too long, or using a sharp knife to cut something open. I miss her presence.

My freedom means I don’t get to hear her laugh. I can almost not remember the sound of it.

Photo by Eugenia Maximova on Unsplash

I remember longing for when I would no longer hold the weight of responsibility inside my body, the drip of resentment woven inside the love I felt for her.

She is free now, too. No more pain, no more failing body and mind. No more Donald Trump, who she despised. No more nagging from me to bathe or get dressed or get up and move her body. No more worry. But also no more laughing and loving and living. Freedom is not free.

I remember not being able to sleep one night during her last living year, words weaving through half-sleep. I grabbed my phone and jotted down what came, once delivered, sleeping. A poem was born:

Almost Free Years ago, at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico we assuage our luxurious guilt By visiting the locals at the village market. Men with automatic rifles at street corners, cigarette flopping from their silent lips Watching us Gringos, for what, we do not know. Sunburned and hungover Harmless, with money to spend, we are unsettled by the guards And still, on vacation. We stroll past grandmothers and grandchildren, entrepreneurs hawking handmade wares. Straw sun hats, black clay pottery, gleaming silver jewelry and village art. To stop us from passing without stopping, We hear their sing-song broken English ‘Almost Free!’ The anthem of the market. We noticed on the trip As we drove through their mountain village Most homes have Only three walls, Fashioned from random available materials. Poverty apparent, shacks, really, with Mothers and children laughing and playing and pounding out corn for tortillas. Music blaring, happy. But really Is it ok to have just three walls? We buy trinkets we don’t need, Vivid paint on handmade brown canvas Depicting village scenes Because they are lovely and almost free. The art moved me And has moved houses with me three times When I look at them, my mind wanders back. ‘Almost Free!’ Which is also what I am As I walk my momma home Loving her, hating the memory thieving disease Taking down her walls I am her three walls, her safety Her brain decays and her body betrays We are Almost free.

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I am free now, and yet caged by loss and grief. Freedom is not free.

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