My Bloody Valentine
Love does not die. The people we love do, but love does not. My mother visited me in a dream recently, perhaps an apparition made possible by our shared microbial culture. Apparently our hearts and minds are in our guts. She gave me all of mine.
In similar fashion, my brother and his story continues through me. Or doesn’t, depending on how you look at things like the value of women. I recently bore witness to the fact that there are only 400 or so people alive today that share his condition; his actual condition (not the misdiagnosis). A condition more rare than diamonds and not valued as falsely. Or is it just, not valued.
I saw this true diagnosis with my own eyes in a video posted on social media as inspiration porn. For me it was like watching my brother’s doppelganger and an impossibly perfect family. Seeing it left me curled up fetal. “Hush baby girl,” she said as I dreamed she was covering me with a blanket, because loving is both soft and blood curdling painful. Repeatedly.
After my dream of her, I uncurled but stayed resigned that my documentary is also lost to another realm. When the third subpoena arrived for me, this one in time for Valentine’s Day, I didn’t go. This time, I barely even reacted and I definitely stopped calling my ex, the lawyer. I hope they read my name out loud in court.
Each time you say “Amy,” you are also calling me beloved, as she intended. Love does not ever die, and it can not be stolen. Love just is.