3 years today since my mom died.
I am in America with my family, having the most sunny, joy-filled, heart-bursting holiday, and yet today my first thought as I swam awake was: 3 years. I started crying almost before I opened my eyes.
It is easier than 2 years, and 1 year. I have consciously not been playing the countdown game, where I remember everything that happened in the weeks leading up to her death. I’ve been as kind to myself as possible when it comes to dark imaginings. When memories surface, as they do this time of year, I’ve watched them but not replayed them on a loop.
And yet. 3 years without a mom. 3 years 1 day since I last kissed her forehead. 3 years since my brother called me to tell me she was gone, and I sank to the floor and howled.
Grief is no longer the suffocating daily presence it once was. It hasn’t got smaller, but life has grown around it in so many beautiful ways… The ache has become a part of my everyday, and I’m able to think of my mom without flinching. This is just life, now.
But today – and I imagine every 1st of July – I am a little more tender. The loss feels a little more fresh. My heart feels sore. Grief sucks.
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