Is Forgiveness Possible After Death?

It was Christmas 2004.

I was in New York visiting family, along with my sister and brother.

One night, an investigative curiosity led to a conversation I will never forget.

My aunt and sister were concerned about the medications they’d found in my mom’s purse. They confronted her about it. And that’s when we found out.

My mom revealed to us that she was HIV positive.

One night, after leaving a bar with some friends, two guys she considered friends raped her. One of them knowingly had AIDS. Unfortunately, his fate with death was no consequence to him. The two men were later incarcerated, and I found out years later one of them died during his sentence.

They betrayed my mother, on so many levels. As a friend and as a human. They marked her and their evil will forever affect my and my family’s life, as well as anyone ever graced to know my mother.

She was a being of light. A true character. A lovely handful. She was funny, charismatic, witty, intelligent, gorgeous, stylish… She was everything.

I remember the shock that ran through my system as she recounted the details. She was crying, we were crying. None of it made sense.

It was a long, cold night.

The next day, my mom wanted to get out for air. I wanted to join her. Usually, she goes out alone, but I felt like getting out of the house too. And I wanted to be close to her.

We stopped by McDonald’s. I remember she ordered a large fry and I had a vanilla shake. We were walking back to the house, me enjoying my milkshake and mom was picking out the crunchy fries from her bag.

I got distracted at something to my right, and mom grabbed the milkshake in a kid-like fun way saying, “Mmm. I got your milkshake!”

I looked at her lips in horror.

This was before the general public had better knowledge about how one contracts AIDS. We, or at least I, wrongly believed you could be infected by the simple touch of someone’s hand or swapping saliva from a shared meal.

“No, mommy. You can’t!” Grabbing at the milkshake cup before she let her lips touch the straw.

My mom intentionally missed exchanging the milkshake with me, as she flung it towards me before I could brace to catch it.

The frothy sweet cream flung up in the air. The cup crashed onto the pavement, spurting out the remaining contents that lay splattered over the small space between us.

“Fine! She screamed. “You know what!” she yelled, tears threatening to break through. “I’ll meet you back at home! I want to be alone.”

My hands started shaking. I wanted to reach out to her. I didn’t even care about the shake that much. But I couldn’t say a word. As she stormed away, I watched. Frozen.

It was an irreplaceable moment.

I made her feel dirty. Untouchable. She couldn’t even share a vanilla milkshake on an unexpectedly warm winter day with her daughter. What monster had I become? I stigmatized her world. I shut her out. She can no longer enjoy the same world she once knew.

We walked home in silence, all the while, the whole evening I wanted to apologize. I pushed her away at a time she really needed comfort and support.

After my mom’s death, I felt numb.

I didn’t even cry much at the funeral. I felt empty and sad but disconnected. I hadn’t understood. I didn’t really get to get to know her. I wasted so much time on small things.

I should have let her have the shake.

She was my mother.

I felt sick to my stomach any time I recalled that day. It was a bad memory that became a nightmare. Some nights, it would jolt me out of my sleep. I was so deeply sorry. The guilt was consuming me.

I wanted to apologize. I should have apologized. Can I, please, apologize?

One night, I sat up in bed. I curled my legs up and squeezed. Resting my chin atop my knees, I started to pray. I hadn’t prayed in so long. I wasn’t even sure where it was going.

So, I just started as a conversation.

“Mom. I just want to know that you’re OK. And I want to say I’m sorry. For all of it. I wish we had more time. But mostly, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. For everything.”

I kept squeezing, long enough for me to finally notice a numbness in my hands. I let go and breathed out a sigh.

I wasn’t sure of anything, but it felt right. I closed my eyes.

That night I had a very peaceful sleep with a very vivid dream.

I know this like I know my own name: My mother came to me in my sleep that night. I remember it like it was a memory, not a dream. I saw and felt everything.

She didn’t say many words. She communicated through her eyes more than anything, which I surprisingly understood. All she ever said verbally was, “I’m OK.”

“I’m OK.”

It’s what I wanted to know. She was OK, and I was happy to hear it from her. She smiled in such a way that lit my whole soul. I felt it. I felt pure love. In a way that I don’t remember feeling with her in the physical.

So much pain got buried. Words and actions were misinterpreted. We never got the time to bond in a lasting way.

But in that dream, it’s as if we never missed a beat. I was her little girl, and she was all mommy. Majestic and careful and radiant.

I remember her being that.

Over the following week, the dream kept replaying in my mind. I was alarmed at how real it felt. It bothered me a little. I woke up reassuringly comforted sometimes. And sometimes, legitimately confused.

Then, I was on the transit bus one day, headed to my Park-n-Ride lot, when a woman boarded the bus. Nothing about her seemed particularly exceptional, but when she passed by me I nearly stopped breathing.

She smelled just like my mother.

I hadn’t smelled that smell in so long. It was so familiar. How did she get it?

I planted my right hand over my heart, bowed my head, closed my eyes, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Some may argue, you can choose to believe anything if you want to hard enough. To them, I would wholeheartedly agree.

I wanted to believe she forgave me, and I felt it that she did. She came when I needed her the most. She didn’t want me to suffer.

In true forgiveness, I learned love.

Death cannot break a bond that was meant to be. In some way or another, you can still communicate. If you believe you can. I felt it. I feel it now. Funny or not, I actually feel far closer to my mother now, several years after her death, than I did when she was alive. I have had several conversations with her, and never feel like she’s gone. She’s only transitioned.

I kind of hate how marshmallow-ey this sounds because I honestly don’t think that way. But I know this in my heart of hearts, and no one can convince me otherwise.

Forgiveness is indeed possible after someone dies.

Love and live, all. But above everything, be compassionate. Towards everyone. Even evil rat bastards that go around spreading death sentences.

Forgiveness even for them.

Rest in peace.

“Forgiveness is healing. You keep the lessons but don’t need to keep the pain.”

I enjoyed the reminder about the importance of dreaming and believing by Min L. It’s a bite-sized read encouraging the power of following one’s heart’s desires.

Thanks for reading and for clapping. I appreciate the support!

Follow me to get a notification when I publish new content.

If you’re new to Medium and haven’t yet subscribed, take the leap and sign up! Your subscription supports me and other writers. Click my personal referral link to support me directly.