2 years gone

I can’t quite fathom that it’s already been 2 years since Mum passed away. In some ways, time does make the loss easier and a little bit less sharp.  But in other ways, I miss her more than ever.

My favourite photo of us, with Will.
My favourite photo of us, with Will.

I still reach for the phone when I feel like I need her – forgetting sometimes that she won’t be on the other end to listen.  I still jot down quotes or anecdotes about the kids with the intention of emailing them to her.  Every day, there is something I want to share with her but can’t.  I keep waiting for that feeling or instinct to fade, but it hasn’t.  Nor do I think it’s going to anytime soon.

I both dread and welcome this anniversary. Dread, well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?  But I welcome it because it gives me carte blanche to think about her, to grieve – still – a little more openly.  I give myself permission to turn inwards, to be sad.  To look through old pictures, to watch the memorial video, to not clear my head when thoughts of her and her illness fill me. To cry.

I suppose it’s odd to say I turn inwards as I write a very public expression of how I’m feeling; but this helps a lot, too.

Dear Mum,

We’re ok.  We all are.  I think you’d be proud of me, of us.  We’re all moving forward, together.  I think we all miss you in our different ways.  Every day, I am reminded of what you told me a few days before you died: “Go do something.” You know, I do something for you everyday – sometimes it’s something big, sometimes it’s something small.  Some things you’d smile at, others you’d shake your head and roll your eyes at, even some still you’d avert your eyes (sorry Mum, in some ways, I’m never going to grow up).

The older the kids get, the more I find myself doing things the way I think you would have done. I suppose my biggest regret is that you aren’t here to see them grow and change and challenge me.  They are three such distinct little people, it’s a wonder they are related. I can bet there are times that they are driving me batty that you are smiling from wherever you are.  You aren’t saying I told you so, but I’m more than certain that you are enjoying watching my buttons being pushed in a way that I likely pushed yours. How am I going to survive the teenage years without you to share a glass of commiserating wine?

Life continues to throw curveballs, to take unexpected twists and there’s no doubt that had I taken the time when I was younger to map out where I’d be in 2014, it would look nothing like the reality that exists.  And that’s ok.  Because I think that no matter what, you’d be there to support me and to listen, gently.  Just like I know you are, now.

I miss you, every day.

Advertisements

Author: Christine Cogger

I am not a writer. I like my kids, coffee, running around and reading about you. I live in the most incredible part of the world and am lucky enough to live some pretty great adventures.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s