If you saw me on January 16, 2011, you’d think I was a young woman without a care in the world. You would see a girl and her Beloved walking around a Home and Garden show: she–thinking about a possible closet makeover–and he–thinking about a water filtration system. She was envying a girl’s Burberry boots. He was appraising outdoor landscaping ideas.
They spent time poking around downtown stores and eventually decided on Italian for dinner.
Certainly, there were cares in the world: work, bills, the loss of a pet, Christmas decorations that had yet to be stored.
But on that day in those moments, life was sweet. A perfect day.
I remember that Sunday because it was the last day my mom was alive.
Which isn’t to say I haven’t had good days since then–even days that I’ve called perfect. I have.
It has been approximately a year-and-a-half since my mom died.
I can scarcely believe how much time has passed. Not that how much time has passed, but how quickly it has.
I don’t think time heals all wounds as that adage might have us believe, but rather, that time simply passes.
Nor–as I’m coming to learn do we simply “get over” something due to the passage of time. Perhaps the initial shock passes. The punch to the gut. But the grief and loss are still there. Which I am learning to deal with (with some help).
It is sometimes hard to talk about grief. Whether it’s grief from a death, end of a relationship, job loss. I think most people are comfortable with grief in a finite timeline: “Well, it’s been six months.” I have been that person.
If you saw me now, you’d see a young woman: a trifle thinner than she was last year. She smiles. She laughs. She talks (too much) about her dog and could probably best you in a s’more-eating contest. She’s probably too emotionally invested in Sephora.com. She talks to her BFF, Bu, daily. Her Beloved has landscaped the backyard.
And she’s pretty happy.
The loss of her mom is omnipresent, however. Because her life is altered.
She knows that her mom has died, but like, Bu, will think, “I need to ask my mom about that.”
I don’t think that viewpoint is that uncommon. I think–especially–after the first few years we have lost someone: the desire to call, to connect, to see them in public is simply there. Or to have experiences that evoke those memories. Trips with family. A ride in the car. A song. A blade of grass.
After a conversation with a friend, I cannot listen to Train’s, “Hey Soul Sister” and not think of my mom.
We get there. We’ll get there.