Brown Suede Gloves

Brown Suede Gloves | Art Therapy with Kimberly

I look at photos of her now, and I’ll look at them for a long time – studying her face, the way she looks, where she is – and I’ll try to wrap my mind around the fact that there will never be any new photos of her ever again.

These photos are all just memories now, they’re in the past.

They are a part of history.

No more new memories will be made.

I heard a Christmas song today and thought of her. I thought about our family and how much we loved Christmas. I thought about our childhood and how she was the one who told me Santa Claus wasn’t real. When we were little kids, on Christmas eve, she knocked on my door and smugly said, “Hey Kimily, Santa isn’t real.” I sat up in my bed, annoyed that she would say that “of course he is!” I defended. She motioned for me to follow her. We walked down the stairs together and she pointed at my Dad as he ate the cookies that were meant for Santa. “See?” she said, I stood there in shock. My Dad noticed us and was so caught off guard, he clumsily managed to muster out, “hey!” as we both ran back upstairs. Before retreating to her room she looked over her shoulder and said, “I told you.” I was so upset with her for ruining that for me. It later became an ongoing joke. When we’re teenagers she’d laugh and say, “consider yourself lucky. If I hadn’t told you then, you’d still believe it now.”

I thought about how everything is so very different now. I thought about the fact that this will be the first Christmas I won’t be spending with my family. The first that I’ll be alone. The first that I’ll be working.

And the second Christmas that Elizabeth will miss.

I thought about the gifts she would’ve given me if she were here, and how I would’ve told her, “please Lizabeth, don’t get me anything. I don’t need anything!” But she would’ve anyway.

She would always get me gloves and when I lived in Ottawa I never needed them. I wish I could tell her that, for once, I actually do need gloves! I have none and the other night I sadly lost the ones you got me many Christmas’ ago. My hands are cold. I need a new pair.

When I start to miss her like this I look up on the internet ‘ways to overcome the death of a loved one’. I search for ways to make myself feel better, to come to terms with the loss, to cope. Each article offers similar advice, a common one is to “allow yourself to be sad”. Simply allow the pain to seep in and allow yourself to cry. It says that this is healthy and normal. But it’s so much easier said than done. It’s like saying, “allow the knife to wedge deeper into your stomach. You feel that? Good. That’s good, now let it continue to slice you further, and deeper.” It’s instinctual to get away from pain. To put on a TV show, to read a book, to get drunk, to get high, to do anything to change or numb the thoughts in your mind. But for some reason, even if I’m ok with the knife and feel ready to feel the pain, sometimes it feels like I can’t. It’s like my subconscious is trying to avoid feeling pain so it will say stories like, “don’t worry she’s just away on vacation.” Sometimes it feels like I’m not even in control anymore.

Right now that knife is pushing itself into my heart. Right now my subconscious hasn’t made up a story. My subconscious has run out of a script this time and is left silent. Reality has taken its place and my heart feels swollen and my throat feels tight.
I wish I could talk to her again.

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