Pianos crashing, shoes dropping: The first anniversary of my mother's death

Saturday will mark the first anniversary of my mother’s death; it feels rather like waiting for that other shoe to drop — expecting it, knowing it must come in the natural order of things, and wondering what it will feel like when it arrives. No way around it; it will simply be. A day — another day, an otherwise ordinary day on which to live in Mum’s absence while knowing her love for me is ever-present in my heart.

My mother was not one for marking private anniversaries publicly, though she enjoyed being celebrated on her birthday. She didn’t believe in a ‘special’ day for mothers in May: “Love me every day or don’t bother me on Mother’s Day,” was, essentially, her attitude, though she never said those exact words. I would call her anyway, to needle her a bit about the day and to ensure she could chime in with others at dinner about phone calls from offspring.

I don’t need a special day to remember my mother. I think of her all the time, speak often of her with my partner, Val; with my siblings and my friends; and I reminisce about Mum with some of her Edmonton friends, including Barbara, Edna, Theresa and Mary. Mum lived a good life and a long life; she called death to her, and it was gentle and peaceful. I have written about it in an essay published recently in INTIMA, a journal of narrative medicine here.

The piano crashed last year. The shoe will drop on April 26th this year. The world will continue to turn — the better for having had Anne Le Rougetel in it. In this world of ours, her spirit remains, as long as I remember her for the splendid mother she was; for the generous, kind, interesting woman she was; for all she gave me and all I have of her in me. 

Anne and Amanda, June 2022

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.

Photo by Imani Bahati on Unsplash