Josh Patten

Photo 10 May 55 notes

anthonyking:

MAY 11, 2002**
My mother died ten years ago.
I remember looking at her body in the hospital after she was gone and thinking, “This is what pure sadness feels like.” Untainted by anger or regret. No buttress of hope for a solution.
I remember driving home and thinking, “She will never see me get married. Or have a kid.” And realizing how heartbroken she would be if she knew.
I remember standing on the back porch of my childhood home and having the distinct, overwhelming feeling that if I walked back inside, she would be sitting on the couch. And I thought, “Oh. Now I know what ghosts are.”
I remember worrying about my father. For the first time in my life. Because he was alone. And scared. And I thought, “I guess now I’m an adult.”
I remember the funeral. When, for reasons I still don’t understand, the tears stopped. And I never cried again.
I remember standing over her in the cemetery. And I had clear certainty that she was not in heaven, or looking over me, or in a better place. She was right there. Under my feet. Under the ground. Dead. And the last vestiges of my faith were gone.
For better or worse, the only things that mattered to my mother were the Lord and our family. She raised independent sons and never fully accepted what that meant for her once we were grown. She believed in the power of prayer in ways I will never understand (and, in some ways, envy). And she never failed to have a strong-headed opinion about every single thing (especially things she knew nothing about).
She was a stubborn woman. She held a family of stubborn men together. And she suffered for it.
We’ve suffered without her.
———————-
**Obviously this picture is not from 2002. I think it’s from 1982? Taken at a family reunion in Texoma, TX (or OK?). Everyone in this picture got fatter.

This is very, very beautiful.

MAY 11, 2002**

My mother died ten years ago.

I remember looking at her body in the hospital after she was gone and thinking, “This is what pure sadness feels like.” Untainted by anger or regret. No buttress of hope for a solution.

I remember driving home and thinking, “She will never see me get married. Or have a kid.” And realizing how heartbroken she would be if she knew.

I remember standing on the back porch of my childhood home and having the distinct, overwhelming feeling that if I walked back inside, she would be sitting on the couch. And I thought, “Oh. Now I know what ghosts are.”

I remember worrying about my father. For the first time in my life. Because he was alone. And scared. And I thought, “I guess now I’m an adult.”

I remember the funeral. When, for reasons I still don’t understand, the tears stopped. And I never cried again.

I remember standing over her in the cemetery. And I had clear certainty that she was not in heaven, or looking over me, or in a better place. She was right there. Under my feet. Under the ground. Dead. And the last vestiges of my faith were gone.

For better or worse, the only things that mattered to my mother were the Lord and our family. She raised independent sons and never fully accepted what that meant for her once we were grown. She believed in the power of prayer in ways I will never understand (and, in some ways, envy). And she never failed to have a strong-headed opinion about every single thing (especially things she knew nothing about).

She was a stubborn woman. She held a family of stubborn men together. And she suffered for it.

We’ve suffered without her.

———————-

**Obviously this picture is not from 2002. I think it’s from 1982? Taken at a family reunion in Texoma, TX (or OK?). Everyone in this picture got fatter.