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 ...