With so many people in this world suffering devastation now, today, whether at the hands of mother nature or fate or circumstances out of their control, it hardly seems fair to dwell on a loss I suffered 14 years ago. Let alone write about it, as though that loss gives me license to feel sorry for myself, over and over again.
But the pain of loss is very subjective. And the pain seems fresh every November 1st.
For some it means taking down the Halloween decorations and replacing them with Christmas lights and garland.
For others it marks day one of Movember, a month-long mustachied fundraising quest for prostate cancer. Or NaNoWriMo, the consummate writer’s extreme writing challenge.
For yet others it is a time to pin a poppy to their lapels as we…remember.
For me, I will never forget. But while most days I push away the sadness to a little corner of my heart, today I choose to remember her.
My mother who would never see me walk down the aisle. My mother who would never hold any of my babies. Or hear their laughter. Or dry their tears. My mother who snorted when she laughed. Whose smile could light up a room. My mother whose empathy knew no boundaries. My mother who fought till there was no fight left.
I debated whether to write about her, as I have before. And then I questioned whether or not I could somehow find a little nugget of humour in this sadness that pervades, if only to keep this post from dragging me down.
Nope. No funny stuff.
Instead, I happened by a blog this morning by writer-artist, Christian Mihai and he wrote something that resonated with me. He said:
Isn’t it true that we write about the things we had and lost not because of the pain we feel, but because we wish to recapture the moments of joy, to keep the flame alive long after our memories have turned to dust?
This sums it up perfectly.
Mom, my heart will never be completely healed, nor do I wish it so, for that will mean I will have forgotten you, when all I wish is…to remember.