September’s Closure

I finally recognize the effect September has on me. A previous lover died in October 2023, and his birthday falls in September. Every year when this month arrives, I get emotional—I remember our relationship and all the feelings tied to it. What I regret the most is never having closure. I always carried this idea that, once we both matured, we’d find our way back to each other. Every September reminds me that this will never happen.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect. It was raw, young, and passionate—passion that could warm or burn, and we experienced both. Looking back makes me relive a version of myself that no longer exists.

If you’ve read my blog on sisterhood, you know that my relationship with my mother is estranged. There are questions from my childhood I may never get answers to, which means closure is something I have to create for myself. One memory still haunts me: a period of my life when I couldn’t walk.

Each morning, my mother, brothers, and I would walk 1.5 miles to the bus stop. One day, I straggled behind as my mother yelled for me to hurry. I told her I couldn’t—my body simply gave out. I don’t recall what happened next. The next thing I remember is my grandfather demanding that my mother take me to the hospital, while she insisted I go to school. They tugged back and forth over my body until my grandmother screamed for them to stop and let me go. What followed was a fight between my grandparents and my mother, moving from the living room to the basement, while I sat silently on the couch, too weak even to cry.

The next memory I have is waking up in the middle of a spinal fluid draw at the hospital. For years, I thought it was a dream—until I became a phlebotomist at Johns Hopkins, pulled up my chart, and saw the record confirming it happened. No one ever told me the truth about that moment.

This morning, after a week of having that memory replay in my mind, I finally called my mother. I knew better than to expect real closure—she often evades my questions or claims not to know. Still, I asked her directly: Why couldn’t I walk? She said she didn’t know. I asked what the doctors said. She replied, “Something to do with your hip,” and then asked if I remembered her trying to help me. I bit my tongue, knowing she was deflecting. All I truly know now is that the cause was never clearly explained, yet somehow I regained the ability to walk.

Instead of closure, I walked away from that conversation feeling worse. It’s painful when the one person who should hold the answers either can’t—or won’t—give them. There are blanks in my story I may never be able to fill.

That realization leaves me lower than I’ve felt in months. Sometimes closure doesn’t come from the people who hurt you or withheld the truth. Sometimes, it has to come from within. 

In the most sarcastic tone, thanks to the both of them.