Kali Breisch Kali wrote this essay about her experience of trying unsuccessfully to awaken her mother after she had died, and her realization that her mother would not return. This essay about personal loss was written by Kali Breisch for her honors English class at Skyline High School in October 2004. Kali’s birth mother, Karen Glynn, died August 6, 1992, at our home, when Kali was 3 years old. Kali’s own words describe her salty “Tsunami of Tears” and eerily foreshadowed the Tsunami that took her life in Thailand.
That inconceivable event challenges our family to face and accept our loss of Kali and the “hole in our lives that can never be filled,” that she also clearly described in this essay. by Kali Breisch When it comes to my mother, I don’t remember much. I can briefly imagine snippets of our life together; the way she used to sweetly read me my favorite children’s book, “Ginger Jumps,” or how she would gently tickle my back and sing Om Namah Shivaya as I drifted off to sleep. There’s not much else my two and a half year old mind absorbed before the cancer took over her body and she left us, but one day in particular stands out in my mind: August 6, 1992. It was a cool summer morning. As I lay outstretched inside the fort of pillows and blankets my siblings and I had made the day before, the sun silently crept through a crack and brought me to awareness. Sleepily, I crawled from the warmth of my nest and trekked downstairs to my parents’ bedroom. My father greeted me at the door, and with tears in his eyes he slowly bent down and scooped me up into his arms. He whispered in my ear, “Mom is waiting for you, come give her a hug.” As we turned the corner I saw her curled up in our warmest blanket in her favorite red-orange La-Z-Boy reclining chair. Even at such a young age, I could tell something was not right. Her overall being was frail: her skin was pale, her hair was stringy, her breathing was heavy and she wore an eye patch. With much difficulty, she summoned enough strength to invite me into her lap. Carefully, I climbed the mountain of blankets and settled in her arms. I enjoyed the glass of fruit juice on the table next to the chair while she told me stories. Eventually, we both fell into a tranquil sleep. When I finally awoke, my mother was still sleeping. I tried to wake her, but her slumber persisted. After infinite ‘mommy wake up’ attempts I finally realized she was never going to come around. A tsunami of tears drenched my nightgown. I was wailing, gasping for air. I could taste the salt running past my lips, and I cried some more. We had a viewing for my mother in our home the following day. Hundreds of relatives and dear friends came to pay their respects; naturally, our home overflowed with love and sorrow. I remember looking down at mother’s swollen body inside her coffin; despite the presence of death, I had never seen her look so beautiful. My eyes welled with tears as I bent down and placed my hand upon hers and tried to say goodbye. At a mere two and a half years of age, I did not know English well enough to verbalize my feelings. If given the chance again, I would tell my mother exactly how much of an influence she had and still has on my life. She is my role model, my heroine, and I admire her more than anyone. She will always hold a special place in my heart, and I love her dearly. I just wish we could have had the chance to relate to each other and become friends, and I have no doubt that she wishes the same. I miss her perpetually; not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and how our life together could have been. I understand that she had to leave, that there was no other option, but upon leaving she left a hole: a hole in my life, a hole in my heart, a hole that can never be filled. All that was left was the light. |