I Turned 18 at a Hospital Bed Beside My Mother
I remember turning 29 and being afraid of turning 30. Every year, I'd swear that I was at the exact same place where my mother left me. 18 and lost. A month after turning 23, my father died next and guess what. I was still there, except I was a few stumbles backwards. 18 and utterly terrified, lying on the ground face down and eating the dirt I was about to be buried in.
I'm onto the second half of being 32, knowing that at some point, I had to use a date calculator because I forgot "what kind of 30-something I was". Funny how time flies. I still think about the life before everything went downhill. I tried my best to preserve those memories in my head, like a place frozen in time. It has turned my dreams into alternate universes where I'm still a daughter and my parents are alive. Upon waking it takes about 10 seconds to realize that none of it was real.
I'm still here but the place has gone relatively better. I have built a makeshift tent with their baby portraits hanging at the top like some nursery mobile. No longer crawling on dirt or digging manholes.
I'm still here, and outside this makeshift tent, everything still scares me.