It’s the month of Mother’s Day. Of mom’s birthday. And the month before the month of the anniversary of her death. In my mind, a year is the amount of time I’m supposed to spend grieving and then sort of be done with it already. Which I know is preposterous. But still, I’m watching May really carefully.
There is some sense that a corner has been turned. It’s finally spring, sponsored by sun and cherry blossoms and new wedge sandals. I’m sleeping more, writing more. Miles is using the potty and Zoe wrote a White Stripes-esque song about a broken heart. Summer is on the horizon: the beach and the country to look forward to, outdoor concerts and ice cream and sleeveless shirts.
But I’m still digging, trying to puzzle it out – puzzle her out. I read somewhere that when someone dies those left behind spend much of their time attempting to solve the mystery of the lost person’s life. The lost person becomes, in death, more mysterious and enigmatic than they were in life, for the simple reason they are no longer around to answer questions.
I’m surprised how often I want to ask mom something that no one else would know the answer to. Like where are those pointe shoes you put away for Zoe? Is that dad in the picture from Courtney’s mom’s wedding or were you on a date with someone else? What happened when that guy broke into our house and stole your jewelry? Tell me again the story of having your third kid and how you were freaking out about it.
Sometimes its like I can’t trust my memories. And I wish I could interview her – like one final interview where I could dredge up all the possible questions I couldn’t bring myself to ask her when she was sick. When you look back on your life, what are your regrets? Did you get to do most of what you wanted to do? Is adulthood really just faking it mostly? How are you in a good mood so much of the time? Aren’t you pissed about this cancer bullshit?
And a question that’s not really a question, with an answer I’ll know only as time marches on:
Just tell me we are all going to be ok without you.
Because some May days are better than others.
