"Broken people don't create memories."
I left the words unsaid. Alexis has never looked depression in the face, so she wouldn't know how to stare it down, recognize it for what it is, and walk away knowing that it's not the sort of thing that can be easily fixed. It's not your fault. It just is.
"But, mom! What kind of things did you do for your mom for Mothers Day?" Alexis pressed on as she grinned from ear-to-ear. She had single-handedly taken on the task of delivering breakfast in bed to me and was watching intently as I ate my cereal. She was so very proud of herself and very much so looking forward to a day where she would dictate my every move in the interest of making it a great day.
I never really did that for my mom. What do you do for someone who is so lost in her head that she can't join life? There aren't words that fix it. No actions make a difference. It's not the sort of thing you explain to a 7-year old, though. You either know it because you're living it, or you're completely oblivious. It's good that Alexis is oblivious.
"Hey. Will you take a picture with me today?" I asked, not so subtly throwing a SQUIRREL! into the conversation.
"Moooooooom," Alexis started to complain. "You have a million pictures of me," she continued.
"But I don't have very many of both of us," I retorted.
That satisfied her and then some.
Broken people don't create memories.
I think that's why she so very rarely appeared in photographs. There is a family portrait from when I was a month old or so, but that's it. She disappeared. Years and years and years went by and she never appeared in a single photo. No photos with her kids. No photos alone. No photos.
It's like she never existed.
I get the thing where we all think we look awful in photos. We need to lose a few pounds, it's a bad hair day, that shirt looks awful ... we all have our excuses.
But, man, exist. Just exist. Only the broken people should be forgetting to create memories.
