So I turned 41 last week. Had a great birthday week, actually. Lots of shout-outs on Facebook, cards, cupcakes, a great steak dinner, a happy hour the next day to celebrate along with a coworker (whose birthday was the day after mine). All in all, a good deal.
And then today rolls around: the eighth anniversary of my Mom's passing.
I felt a tad melancholy when I glanced at the clock on my phone at 10 AM*. But then I always feel a tad melancholy when I do that. My grief has certainly evolved from the times when I could not talk about it at all, despite all the pleasant and supportive urging from my wife. At the time, my Sister thought I wasn't really mourning Mom, or at least not mourning in the proper way. I'm usually much more effusive with my emotions, so my reticence was surprising to me. I think that part of me, the part I got from Mom, needed to hunker down and ride out the artillery barrage, just like in All Quiet on the Western Front. After a while, the ground no longer shook from the explosions of the falling shells.
Now I just miss her. I miss her council, her humor, her zest for life. I know I'll always carry those things within me and I use them most every day. That's the best thing I can do for her today. Especially today.
*We used to call each other at work at 10 AM every morning. Silly conversations mostly. But I miss them most of all.
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- "You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting, You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine." -- from "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver
2 comments:
I cannot imagine losing my mother, so I won't say I know how you feel. I'm sorry though...
Thanks. A dear friend recently suffered the loss of her Mother and I've been telling her that grief does fade. It never completely goes away, but it fades. The only time I actively think about Mom most days is at 10 AM, and that in itself is mostly a physical reaction.
Cherish your Mom, and the rest of your family and friends, while they're still here. But that goes without saying, doesn't it?
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