Last night, a moth began dancing confusedly around the dining room light fixture. It went around and around, dipping, up and down, like it was lost. 

I’m not someone who believes a lot in the woo woo. I don’t entertain the supernatural much at all, but I had to wonder. I’ve heard that moths symbolize death or the departed.

I began talking to the moth the way I had so many other family members when they were leaving, in case it was my sister: “You’re okay, you’re okay, we’ll be fine. We’ll miss you, but you can go on now. Rest.” 

I told it that it wasn’t lost, that it wasn’t stuck, it could go forward. I told it (her?) that her son is fine, will be fine. He’s 18 and will graduate this year. He lives with my brother, who treats him like a son.

I told the moth that it wasn’t lost, it just needed to go up. “Fly upwards,” I said. “Fly upwards.” 

I said I loved it. Her. 

The thing that haunts me most is that she was alone when she died. Did she know she was dying? Did she have any idea that she was on her way out of this world? Was she in pain? 

Did she call out for help, for comfort? 

I wish I could have been with her when they took her away, but I didn’t know in time to get there. It haunts me that I couldn’t be sure that they were gentle with her body, that they treated her with respect, though I’m sure they did. They’ve been the ones who have transported so many of our loved ones and they’ve always been so kind. 

They took her directly for an autopsy, if I understand correctly. I didn’t get to say goodbye. 

When that’s through, she will be cremated. I want to call everyone I can, ask where she is right now. I won’t.

I’m not blaming anyone that I wasn’t there. It was so unexpected, it was such a shock. There were others to consider. Those who made decisions did the best they could considering the shock. They were waiting for someone to come to me, get to me, tell me in person, because they didn’t want me to hear it over the phone. Again, I am not blaming anyone.

For someone with an imagination, you might not think so, but it’s difficult to feel as if I’ve said a proper goodbye when I haven’t been able to touch her hand, stroke her face. To slide something small and discreet into the casket (that she won’t have now) that would mean something to only the two of us. 

When you love an addict, you love them knowing you have no idea how long you will have them. It makes you pull away in subtle ways, in subconscious ways, though you don’t mean to. The disease often changes their personality and leads to mental health issues that the addict doesn’t/won’t recognize. They are never again the person they used to be. 

You learn to love at a distance.

The logical part of me knows I did not fail her. I tried. Everyone tried, some harder than I did, I’m ashamed to say. But sometimes I think, maybe I should’ve gone to the house and picked her up while she was still with us (god, she was small) and tossed her in the vehicle and said You’re going back to rehab. End of discussion. But I know enough about addiction (I wish I didn’t) to know that doesn’t work and if it does, it doesn’t last. 

And BTW, if they don’t go willingly, rehab won’t accept them.

The thing is, you can’t make someone do what’s best for them. Not even if you love them. Especially not then. The human spirit doesn’t bend that way, it snaps. It rebels. And it will walk straight into the fire just to prove it still has a choice.

The moth disappeared after I talked to it, which would sound like I was right in thinking it was her asking for help. But it came back again a few minutes later, so obviously it was just a confused insect that was drawn to the light. 

But I felt better for having said what I had. 

I don’t pretend to know what the afterlife is like, but whatever it brings, I hope it brings those who go to it peace. Or, at the very least, oblivion, which seems more likely and is maybe the same thing. 

I will be saying goodbye to her in stages, on repeat. When I hugged her son the day she died and told him I loved him, I was saying goodbye to her. When I wrote her obituary. When I stalked her Facebook page grabbing screenshots of her poetry and artwork, in case it gets archived as it sometimes does when they somehow hear someone has passed. When I went out to the cemetery ahead of time. 

I’ve asked for one physical item to remember her by, one of her pieces of artwork to frame. But that’s not where the real memories reside, do they?