I don’t know if this is helpful.
The world shifts with the loss of your mother. It is forever divided into two parts… life with her in it and life without. She is changed by death, and we are changed too. It is impossible to be the same person.
The first weeks after she died was just animal pain… pacing inconsolably in a driveway trying to run away… make it not be true. Waking up with her loss always the first thought. I was as a small child stripped of her mother, and all I could do was keen and rock and look for her. I want my mother. I want my mother, still.
Then there was the miracle of the iPhone. I was grieving one morning in the week after she died when my phone with a darkened screen suddenly began playing a song by the Four Tops that was a kind of signature song for my mom.. Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch. She bought a small stuffed bear for my niece as a baby once that played that song. And, my mom would sing it to one or another of us over the years since. Suddenly my phone was playing that song. I cried out, but I took solace whether it was moment of grace or a soothing coincidence.
It will soon be five years since my mom died. Much has changed. One of my sisters is divorcing but also recovering from a long depression. My other sister is reaching out to stay closer as we age now that the glue of my mother no longer does that job. Somewhere out there a half sister died which I don’t connect to but is strange to know. My niece is now a 21 year old, non binary art major in college. And, I have lived a while without my mother in the world. I am no longer standing in the driveway trying to escape my skin. Most of the time, my grief is soft. I have accepted.
There are many grief anniversaries. Usually they are quiet, private times. Although, there are sudden sharper ones like when a stranger loses her mother and cries out in pain as she is forced to join… how did my friend put it?… that club that no one wants to be a member of. At such times, I am reminded of the guttural grief of the first days. Her pain is why I’m sobbing and grieving and writing today.
Mostly, the anniversaries are quieter more ordinary, more every day in their passing… like when washing my face. My mom used to wash her face with a washcloth every morning. It was a small morning abulation that she did without fail, a ritual performed both when she was vital and living life, and later when Parkinson’s was stealing everything from her. She would, throughout all of it, take an ordinary washcloth and with it in both hands, palms open, wash her whole face, somehow falling into it as a private pleasure. It was vivid even then when there was no thought of her eventual loss. Now, that she is gone, I think of her every time I wash my face
Whether I’m washing my face, or using a common utensil in my kitchen that I used so often in hers, it is a moment of remembrance… a little like grief, a little like grace. Often, in my head, I’ll smile a little, recognize her and say, “Hi, Mom.” And she will say, “Hi Honey.” Sometimes I carry on a small conversation. She’ll say, “It’s okay.. don’t worry.” And she soothes me. In these times, she is returned to me, whether in reality or as an echo. Is she with me, really really really.. as I hope? I don’t know. She refuses to stay in my head for discussions of an afterlife and momentary whispers of her dissipate like fog. I admit that am someone who can think Yes… she is there. My husband, the rabid atheist, holds his tongue.
But, in truth, it doesn’t matter which is true. I am reminded that love is eternal, even if we ourselves are not. Inescapable grief is balanced on scales by love. In this, we are fortunate.