The day passed. It was harder than many: it was cold and rainy, with the sort of overnight temperatures that make planting bedding plants unwise. The garden I spread my mum’s ashes in remains closed, so I could not go and sit on her bench and tell her about the winter that was.
Which left me with the coping mechanisms of staying off social media and being thankful for the friends who texted me to tell me that they knew this was a hard day for me.
It was not a good day. I suppose, and this is what matters, is that it wasn’t a bad day either. I keep wanting to say that it gets better or it gets easier or something. In truth, I think I get better at making it easier.
I also think that maybe we should start handing out badges for this sort of thing.