Without a last Goodbye

She was there at the beginning of my life, but I was not there for the end of hers. The last time I said goodbye to my mom was two years before she passed away. It was at the airport, before coming back to the life I had built away from her.

When my mom passed away, many travel restrictions were at their peak because of the Covid-19 pandemic. On the one hand, my mind kept ramping with delusions of getting a chance for a seat on that last-minute flight to Lima. This revolved my grief into endless uncertainty, as these regulations were overwhelming. Thoughts about family, time, distance, memories, life & death assembled up in front of me -like the Hitchcock’s Birds, ready to strike me down at any moment. I needed an anchor that allowed me to deal with my grief and all its complexity. With all my anger, sadness and fear; staring at me, I began shooting.

It was tormenting to even think about traveling as I realized something trapped me inside out. The light cracking into my darkness felt like the sand coming down inside a sand timer, when I could actually see how time actually slowly flows to, then evaporates.

Finally, after a few months, I looked at the images I was producing and were piling into my archives. They are the buckle I needed to navigate this process, to learn how to live with a new way to feel her absence. Now, grief comes and goes, but never performs its last farewell. It never says a last goodbye.

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