Joy Is My Jam

Almost always

Listen to me read this essay below.

Joy is my jam. It is my birthright, settling into the seat right next to all the heartache and loss I’ve ever experienced. 

When my mom was dying in her hospice bed in our home, we were all there. I took short breathing walks, while begging our ancestors and god to come and get her, to release us from the misery of her dying physical body, her agonizing moans, the relics of a body not wanting to live and not wanting to leave.

My joy bubbled up as I imagined Dad’s spirit there, bending his “come hither” finger, come. Come. He was her greatest love, there to carry her home.

When she finally stopped breathing, I wailed with my sisters, as she floated away into the ether and all that was left of her was still-warm blue wrinkled skin, her remade ring from two failed marriage diamonds still sparkling on her arthritic finger. Her gasping gone.

I still want her here, and I don’t want the burden of her care. Both are true.

I inherited my cotton candy joy from her, ever positive, one of her most endearing traits. When Dementia claimed too much of her personality, her true essence prevailed, like muscle memory. Joy. It was in there somewhere. 

I am wired for joy, bright red and purple and orange wires tangled inside the ones that will kill you if given too much power. Wires like lifelines to the weight of all the stories I write, all the chances I take when I write them.