I saw my mother alive, awake, talking a year ago yesterday. That was the last time. When I saw her in December she was gone in mind, if not in body. I was around to watch the body go.
I miss her, you know. Time has smoothed over the horrors and the anger and the hurt and mostly what I remember are the good times now. I miss those times.
In these cold, grey and dreary days of November, I am tired. Weary. Sad.
I think about the family I have built up around me and how it is starting to change as the nieces and nephews move on to other things. I think about everyone I’ve said goodbye to.
I’ve said a lot of goodbyes in the last year.
You would think I would be better at it. You would think that change should have become second nature. You would think I should easily and quickly bring all of my resilience to the table.
I say it’s the change of the seasons. The increasing dark, the wet and heavy days. I run a bit further for the energy, seek the sun where I can find it. I light candles and cook stew against the darkness.
It’s just November, I say. I tell myself this. I tell myself that I will get through the first anniversary of her death, of Gabe’s death and then will come Christmas.
It’s just November, after all.