Eleven Years

It's been 11 years since my mom passed away. February 22nd has been the day that I missed her a little bit more than usual and recalled exactly how I felt when my dad woke me up to tell me she was gone.

Today, I didn't feel anything. I did the things I normally do: running errands, cleaning the house and praying that if there is a God that he'll prevent my neighbor from blasting that godawful wannabe rap. There was no regret or nostalgia. After all of this time, the anniversary of her death felt like just any other day.

I thought about what was different and felt sad when I had my answer: I have lived without her long enough to build a life in which she has never had any part. She never got to meet my son. I never sent postcards from San Francisco, Vancouver or Toronto, because she wasn't there to receive them. I've spent the last few years making my own holiday traditions, acting without concern for what she might have to say about anything.

I have learned to exist without her love.


I used to be afraid when I'd think of this happening. Did moving on mean that I would forget her, that she didn't matter? Would it make me a horrible person for being able to continue on a path that diverged from the one where I'd walked with her?

I feel that it's none of these things and that, like everything else, this is just part of the order of things. I don't love her any less. I am not being disloyal by managing to live on.