Deep Regrets

I took a lot for granted.
I sometimes regret rushing to grow up, rushing to become more independent than I already was. I didn't soak in the memories like I should have. I should've stopped myself and considered where I was in life, and what I had in front of me, that I don't anymore.

I miss sitting with my mother and my sister, especially on the good days. Just us girls, no random men walking through the doors and destroying our home. Just us, our little broke family. We would talk about the day we had, banter back and forth, listening to each other laugh.

I miss cooking with my mother, digging in the garden with her, and sitting on the porch in the mornings. I should've admired my her more, took the time to really look at her when she was healthier. She's not that old, but her decisions have been made and now I fear for our futures. Her dark golden hair was once long and feathered, a 1970s style that was curled to perfection, now thinning with age and stress. Her dark, tan skin use to be full of life, cheeks blushing with orneriness and laugher. Now paper like and thin, it hangs loose on her febele body, clinging to her bones. She's never been this skinny before. Her health is gradually declining with age. She once had the spirit of a biting mare, daring anyone to test her and her family. That fire is now just a spark, a barely pulsing coal in the dark embers.

I should've held my Grammy's hand more. Her soft, velvet skin was dotted with sun spots, long nails always glistening with polish. She smelt of Tabu and baby powder, a scent that once filled my lungs with warmth, now wrenches my heart in a cold, steel fist. The regret and loneliness is sickening. I should not have complained about going to church, I should've sung loud and proud next to her in the pews. I should've worked on those puzzles with her, those endless puzzles that would take weeks to finish, covering the kitchen table. She was so proud of them. I should've taken her hand to danced to the Cleftotes and the Crests, an old DooWop CD that once drove me crazy.
The devil has now stolen her memory, the memories of us, and soon her breath. The disease runs through our blood, and soon my mother will fall prey, too.

My father. A fading echo, a beautiful life that was stolen from us. My biggest regret and freshest wound, no matter the number of years. I remember how he walked, and how he use to carry himself; prideful yet humble. He had a tattoo on his shoulder, a flag that I use to trace when I was little, faded from sunlight exposure. His scent was sharp and spicy, his jade eyes sparking his ornery smile, a character trait that I carry. He wore his shirts tucked into his jeans, ironed and pressed by my mother, and sometimes me, when I was around to help. He was adventurous. He was a hard working man, fighting long and hard to keep my family afloat. He will never be forgotten.
He was supposed to be there to see me buy my first truck, to listen to her engine roar, and to save me when she practically died on the highway. He was supposed to be here to see the acceptance letter, to see me beaming with excitement, my dream since sophomore year finally becoming reality. But I was left to swallow my happiness and tears, simply nodding with smothered satisfaction and tucking the letter away for another day. Another day when I'm stronger. He was supposed to tell me tales of his childhood, giving me the opportunity to learn more about him and our bloodline. I hardly know the man that raised me for a short time. But I see him in me, in my characteristics, habits and ticks. I see him in his old friends that I run into every once in a while, remembering the good times we shared. I see him in my fading mother, knowing that her heart hurts more than mine ever will. She has the memories, while I have the pictures, the short lived happiness frozen in time. Framed and cherished. I regret fearing him. What was there to fear? The screaming, the anger? I should have beared it, I should have just hugged the man and told him I loved him, for Christ's sake, that could have saved him. He was loved, he had family and friends that cherished him. I should have given him more attention instead of hiding, I should have sat with him longer when he cried, when he was broken and hurting. I should've stopped the fights. I should not have rejected him. Maybe he would still be here. Maybe the other men would stop trying to replace him, stop trying to come into our home, our lives, and ruin everything. If I could hear his voice one last time, breathe in his scent, hold onto him a little longer, maybe the wound will finally heal, and stop throbbing.

I should have sat in the saddle longer. I should've let go of the reins and rode slower. I should've took the long way home in my truck, listening to her engine and enjoyed those drives through the mountains. I should've layed in the sun longer and breathed in the Earth. I should have stopped myself, in those small moments, and listened. Really listened. I should've slowed down and breathed. But I didn't. And now, it's too late.