We can’t reconcile everyone’s recollection of effort in grief.

I say this because last night my mother had a conversation with an aunt about creating a schedule around care, community, and support around my aunt’s ailing mother. She cried on the phone to my mother, held by her wisdom.

I sat in the kitchen, stunned. I sat in the kitchen transported back to 2020 staring at the crude (and fluctuating) schedule in my diary that I made because my sister was tired. I was tired. My brother was tired.

In this very conversation where my sister says aloud, “Mom, you only watched Lolo for one night.” Our mother responds, “I tried.”

I’m still working on holding both truths in my hands:

* My mother was traumatized as a fifteen-year-old abandoned in the States by her parents who married quickly for a green card and a family

* My siblings and I needed more help than we were given because our parents trauma got in the way of providing this help

Other truths I hold in my hands:

* I resent becoming a primary caretaker of my Lolo

* I hated being a primary caretaker of my Lolo

* I felt guilt towards this hate the moment Lolo passed away

Self-soothing during a panic attack going through the cyclical motions of grief

Anger is an emotion I continue to hold and unravel. This poem was a way of surrender. I didn’t want to be angry anymore. I didn’t want to feel guilt where there isn’t a reason to feel guilt.

So now, in my hands, I hold the butterfly of myself and let it coast the wind.