A few days ago, I was hit in the face by four little words by Amy Poehler that changed my view on grief.
“Tell me about her.”
I wish I could stop choking up when I want to mention your name. But every time someone asks me how I’m doing, I stop thinking and can’t get it out. It’s been over a year now, almost 48 weeks more than they gave you when we found out you were in the last phase of your life.
We call them bonus days. We’re pretty fond of them, actually. Friday night dinner has a different meaning to us now. We cook, we laugh, play a game, or simply talk about the things that keep us going. Or the things that keep us from moving forward. And the things that keep us from moving on.
No one has ever asked me what she was like as a mom. Except, well, maybe my therapist. Even though we were two completely different people, we could have fun together sometimes. Yes, we didn’t always fit through the same door together, and yes, some days we ended up yelling at each other. But I was too young to understand. Now I’m older, and I still don’t understand it completely. I don’t think I ever will.
I do understand now that the love she gave was the best version of what she knew of love.
I didn’t realise I was writing in the past tense until I saved the draft. That says a lot now, doesn’t it?