Writing was one of my first conscious affections for something I could absolutely hate but never not totally love. I believe that in loneliness and longing comes an intimate friendship with art. I was in 5th grade when I entered into that relationship - pulling apart my innards like an oily lawn mower engine, curious of its design but all the while terrified of the blade beneath it all. I guess that’s what Pale Car Society is for me: a public examination of myself. And it’s by no happenstance today is the day I let the world into the place she resides most in my life.
My Mom went missing on March 1st, 2016 and was found dead three days later. I can feel my heart callusing the wound of her absence, blurring the images of her body dressed in fallen branches, deafening the sounds of her cries for help. Some would say this is the natural progression of “healing,” but if healing is forgetting, I want nothing of it.
It’s odd to be so different from the person my Mom knew when she was alive. A small part of me mourns the death of my own self in the process of hers. I have trouble letting go of what supplies even the slightest connection to my Mom. I feel guilty for loving who I’ve become without her in my life. Her absence has shaped me in ways her presence could never. I think many relationships in all of our lives will have the same effect. We become aware of the accents of one’s beauty only when their presence has been sentenced to our memories. But in turn, we live our new lives in search of their beauty, impacting those around to witness the hunt. Though tragic, it’s an incredibly profound process to experience. With that said, I’ll never outrun the hounds of sorrow. I woke on the couch this morning, cheeks wet with tears, as I thought of her. I hope I never stop crying. I fact, I hope I cry more. Some are just worth never healing from, I suppose.
Matthew W. Kennelly