And how that care and attention would no doubt have been lavished on the next generation. And you remember how your own mother used to do the same to you. Spits on her hanky to wipe the smudge of jam smeared across the four years old’s cheek. She wears a ‘good winter coat’ my mother would have liked. The doting granny who collects the little girl your daughter’s age from the creche.
And because the severity with which it hits is in no way linked to how long it is since the person went, we then feel that we have to hide our reaction, because to a large part of us, alongside the outside world, it doesn’t seem logical, or proportionate, or socially acceptable.Ĭertain random moments grate. It jumps out at you when you least expect it. I think the thing that irritates me most about grief is its sheer unpredictability. Emotions can be very annoying when they won’t behave themselves. Even when it is inconvenient, and upsetting, and a sheer bloody nuisance. To allow the past in to disrupt the present. Who single handed make it socially acceptable to just ‘dwell’. I’m just thankful for the likes of Michael Harding. The truth of it is that the part of me that misses her is more powerful than the part of me that feels self-conscious about that fact. And for anyone else out there who might equally struggle on occasion, sure stick around and we might just find some common ground. And if Mr & Mrs Judge do not agree, or are irritated, or annoyed, or aggrieved, at me bringing up the subject again, head off now and click on the ‘Latest’ button. That time may be a great healer, but there’s no formula for how long. That, unfortunately, grief does not follow a defined trajectory. Recognises that this is how I feel about missing my mother. ‘Would I ever j-u-s-t b-l-o-o-d-y m-o-v-e o-n…’īut another, kinder, part of me is not so self-critical. So for all those out there who may raise their eyes to heaven, rest assured, a very large part of me entirely agrees your views on said subject.
Thinks that nigh on eight years later, this is a subject that I should no longer need to ‘address’ in any shape, manner or form. Because, rest assured, oh pragmatic one, the judge inside me thinks the very same thing. ‘Would she ever just get over it!’ my imaginary reader responds, and that thought makes me want to shut up instantly. Unfortunately, grief does not follow a defined trajectory And maybe, just maybe, the odd ‘churn’, the odd wallow, the odd ‘Feeling Sorry For Meself’ session, will help me reconcile myself to the facts before me. It’s all still in there, simmering away beneath the surface. Because all I really know is that keeping ‘it’ inside, does me no good at all. Trying to get whatever I feel inside out onto this page. Or just plain pathetic.Īnd I’m acutely aware of the fact that she is dead YEARS, and I find myself self-conscious about the fact that, despite this passage of time, despite all those years that have rolled by, all those words I have spoken and written, I still feel a gap where she once was, which I can’t quite find anything to fill. And then a couple of months later I seem to always find myself back in front of this computer screen, writing about it again, somehow trying to make sense of the fact that she is no longer around, without wanting to appear to be overly sentimental about it. There’s that particular subject covered off. Would I ever just get over myself…ĭespite all these years, the pain is still hereĮvery time I write a piece about missing my mother I always think afterwards, ‘Well, tick. Here I go again, nearly a decade later, talking about grief. Will I ever adjust, I wonder to myself, to the fact that my mother is gone?
And makes the life that’s left behind just that little bit heavier that it was before. And I wonder will I ever, ever, get used to it? As the initial tears of shock dry up, what’s left behind slowly sinks down into you. And I suppose that as emotional crutches go, I’ve heard of worse.Įven now every time I think about it, it never fails to wind me. Me? I guess I try and fill the hole with words. Which bores down into you like a corkscrew, right into your very core, and hollows you out, and fills the hole that’s left behind with something just a little less solid, a little less complete than what was there before. IT IS AS palpable as it is indescribable.
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