Summer Bird Blue

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

I’ve turned into someone else—someone unstable. I’ve run out of reasons to wake up every morning. I’ve become a corrupted version of myself—a version everyone seems to think is on the brink of self-destruction.

But when a memory clicks into my brain like a gear being forced, I have no control over it. The scene just plays out, taking control of my consciousness, forcing me to remember things that are painful and beautiful and horrible all at once.

There’s a light behind his eyes—something more than just cleverness. It’s something very much alive, like a gear constantly turning, or a wild crackle of electricity. Some people look like that—like their brains never take a break.

“Because I have to remember all the times I was horrible to her, and all the times I wasn’t. Because the more I think about it, the more I worry I was a really bad sister to her. I think I spent more time being angry and jealous and petty than I did just loving her. And I did love her—I loved her more than anyone could’ve loved her. But I don’t think I showed it enough when she was alive, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to make that up to her.

She lived for moments like this—the spontaneous ones. The ones that made her feel giddy and grown-up.

And maybe that’s why Mom isn’t here—she thinks I’m strong enough to do this alone.

Most other people my age have crushes—they’re attracted to each other and have the urge to flirt. I don’t feel anything like that—when I think about romance, I feel indifferent. When I see someone I think is physically attractive, I don’t picture them naked or wonder what it’s like to kiss them—I just see people who are aesthetically pleasing and could potentially make a good friend.

But it doesn’t work that way. You can’t stop being a mom just because your heart is broken. There are rules. There are consequences, too.

And maybe that’s like life. You live for a moment—one single moment. And then you don’t matter. Because there are years of the past and years of the future, and we’re all simply one tiny blip in time—a surge of water waiting to leave our mark on the sand, only to have it washed away by the waves that come after us.

I hate it. I hate the rushing, and the expectations, and the pressure.

Love is specific. And if you don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, you risk wasting months or years getting to know someone who is ultimately not “the one.” What’s the point of wasting all that time?

“I’m not ready to grow up yet. And I don’t mean in a Peter Pan way. I mean I’m literally not ready. I don’t know the things other people know at my age. I haven’t made the choices other people have made. I’m . . . not ready.”

How can someone be so unafraid of a life they don’t even want, when I’m petrified of starting the one where so many doors are still open?

Because sometimes that’s important—asking fo’ help. There’s no shame in saying, ‘I can’t do this alone.’ There’s no shame in saying, ‘I’m not okay.’

Grief is a monster—not everyone gets out alive, and those who do might only survive in pieces. But it’s a monster that can be conquered, with time.