I didn’t realise until about 7pm last night that yesterday was the anniversary of my mum’s death. I was half sad that I hadn’t remembered earlier, but then what was the point of that? To wallow in the memory? I don’t need that. I’m glad I remembered, but only because I don’t want to forget.
I have a couple of friends who in recent years have lost a parent. It gives us a common understanding I would never have considered before. It was not something I gave a lot of thought too before, and the passing occasions I did I expected that when the time came that I would feel grief and loss, but with time it would pass.
In a way I was right. I don’t feel the same grief I had when mum died. Time has eased that. I still have a sense of loss though, and when I speak to my friends they say the same thing. You become use to someone no longer being a part of your life, but you never stop missing them.
It’s probably more exaggerated in me because I have no other family really, and she was the person who loved me best, who cared the most, and in whose thoughts I know I was in most frequently. We had a tight bond which was a mix of emotion and history and simple domestic familiarity. We were in each others lives, we saw each other often, and she was always there for me. I have become accustomed to that loss, but I wish it was different.
How often now do I see things or think things and wish I could speak to mum about that, or ask that question. I miss just having her at the end of a phone line always ready to give her time to me, and miss the casual visits that became dinner or larger family things. All of that is very foreign to my life as it is today.
My friends, though their experience is different – and everyone’s is – know exactly what I mean. It’s as if we’re members of the same club: the beloved departed parents club.
Anyway, I’m glad to mark the occasion; gone, but not forgotten.