It doesn’t seem like a very long time, and yet it seems like an eternity.
It’s been one whole year since my mother died. I can’t really believe that. It seems like just yesterday my sister and I were talking about it being one whole month since she’d passed.
The pain isn’t as raw anymore. Instead of a sharp stabbing kind of pain, it’s settled into a throbbing ache that’s sort of always in the back of my mind. I miss her incredibly. I miss that I can no longer talk to her, except when I dream about her. And I do dream about her. The funny thing about these dreams is that usually she has a limited time to be with us before she disappears, or she’s back from the dead, but no one else believes me that she died. Weird right?
I often think about how she would react to things. Like my brother getting married. She would have stressed out about finding the money to get there, but I’m sure between the four of us we would have gotten her there. I don’t know whether she would have come on vacation with us. Half of me thinks she wouldn’t want to, but the other half thinks I could be very wrong about that. Would we all have gone on vacation if she hadn’t died? Did her death somehow teach us that our ties to each other are important but tenuous? I don’t know.
I do know that she’d be horrified at the state of my apartment. She’d be constantly worried about me losing my job. She’d be worried about my falling too much, but I’m also sure she would think a rollator a silly idea at this stage in my life. I’m sure she’d be proud of me too, although I haven’t done much in the last year to be proud of. Just kept moving forward. Maybe that is enough.
365 days without her. One is too many.