My mother died when she was 63 and I was 36. We were friends and I loved her deeply. It has been 15 years since she left. It was a Monday night and no time for a goodbye. I had seen her that day and she looked healthy and beautiful. I think about her every day. I see her in myself and my children. What I would do for one more day.
Time doesn't heal all wounds. That is a fallacy. Maybe my heart doesn't ache all the time anymore, but when it does ache the pain is deep and smothering.
I would remain the same person. Nope, the night she left I changed forever. I became someone I didn't know. I became someone I didn't like. But then years went by and I grew and realized change is fine. I am allowed to still be happy. It took a long time to realize how.
Only a few people really care. This was a tough one. People forget how important she was to me, my children and family. I talk about her to strangers, I ask people if they knew her and if they did, I inquire about her. I try not to be a pest but I like how I feel around these people, I like that they knew her apart from me. I like that it is a new story about her...her life that I didn't know.
I believed I had to be strong, that I didn't care too much she was gone. I believed I was a great actress, proud of myself for living the first few years like it was just a part of life. That attitude caught up with me. I fell, and I fell hard. It took 5 years to get up. Five very hard, humiliating, depressing years.
I discovered that her death doesn't need to be defined. She died. The reasons why, her story, the impact on me, the impact on others, the sorrow....it doesn't have to be defined. It doesn't need to make me more conscious or be a learning experience or preparation for the next big loss I will feel.
She was someone who loved me and my children. She was a good soul. She loved nature and walking. She loved smelling flowers and feeling dirt. She loved laughing. She loved smoking.
She will be missed forever.
