I watched you from behind. I'm trying not to judge.
I watched you from behind as you defiantly rose your chin and brushed your bangs aside while the minister shared with us his memories of her father's love, dedication, and heartbreak. I'm trying not to judge.
I watched you from behind as the stories were told by others of how she had touched their lives forever, how she had loved them, and how they had loved her back. Your name is never mentioned. Your mother sat with you, but your sisters and brother sat across the room. They didn't acknowledge you. You did not look towards them. I'm trying not to judge.
I watched you from behind as you asked to speak. The minister appeared surprised, but nodded 'yes'. You rose and opened your prepared statement with shaking hands. You turned to face us and said "I was her mom." As if we didn't already know. Or was it because you weren't sure any of us remembered? Or were you reminding yourself? You quickly read your statement and sat back down. I doubt anyone remembered what you said. I didn't. I'm trying not to judge.
Later, I watched you as you quickly lit your cigarette inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly under a flawless, September sky - outside with friends and relatives. Inside her father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and dearest friends cried as they looked upon her face one last time before her casket was closed. I'm really trying not to judge.
I watched you at the gravesite as they lowered her into the ground. Your sunglasses were big and dark, covering your eyes. Were you watching me watching you? Did you hear the whispers and gossip? Do you feel the pain a mother feels when she loses a child? Do you feel guilt? Do you feel? I'm trying not to judge.
I watched you as you climbed into your friend's pick-up truck. I was in the car behind you as you left the cemetery. Your friend turned left, fast enough to squeal his tires and leave a trail of faint, blue smoke - fast enough to get the hell out of Dodge. We turned right. In fact, all of us who loved her and were not ready to let go of her turned right...
I'm trying not to judge. But... how could you have loved your addictions more than you loved your daughter? Why were you not there to help her get ready for her first and only prom? Where were you? I don't understand why you did not visit her once all those weeks she was in the hospital? Or when you found out she was dying and near the end? When she was struggling to breathe and her father cradled and held her up thoughout the days and nights, where were you? Why was every fiber of your being not wanting to be with her, to hold her, to kiss her, to smell her, to comfort her? When the minister shared with us how she told him right before she died that every happy memory she had, her father was in them - did you feel... anything?
I realize you must have your reasons, your excuses,... your demons. Whatever they are, they will never be good enough. I'm trying not to judge, but I do.
