46 Months, 200 Weeks

One Lifetime of Missing Mum

My darling Mum, gone suddenly, gone too soon, gone in a way that left

a hole nothing will ever fill, I do not try to fill it anymore, I just live alongside it

I build my life around it, I let the wind blow through, and I keep going

Ma, 46 months, 200 Weeks ago, we unexpectedly, irrevocably lost you, I remember that day so clearly, and yet not at all, grief does that to everyone, as it sears certain images into my memory with burning clarity, while blurring everything else into a fog that never quite lifts, and I recall the phone ringing, the world seemed to tilt sideways, like a ship that had suddenly lost its balance on a calm sea, and I kept thinking that it cannot be right, there must be a mistake, people like you do not just leave, but you did, 46 months, 200 weeks, that is how long it has been since I answered a knock I never heard coming, as I found my world split open, when grief kicked my door down, without kindness and mercy, splintered the frame, shattered the lock, left jagged edges where there used to be smooth wood, and I have been living in that draft ever since

Ma, there is no gentle way to say it, one day you existed in the same universe as me with certainty, joy, shared memories, the comfort of knowing the world was as it should be, and then, in an instant, there was silence that followed me into every room, the space you occupied on this earth collapsed, I found myself stood in the middle of the rubble, before that day, my door was a perfectly ordinary door, solid, it was constructed over a lifetime, crafted by your love, strengthened by your presence, secured by the simple knowledge that it had a reliable lock, a familiar handle, and a comfy weight when it swung shut behind me, because I was sheltered and safe, taking for granted that door kept out the cold, the noise, the fear that something irreplaceable could be lost, and then, 46 months, 200 weeks ago, grief came, and destroyed it permanently

Ma, in the beginning, I did not even look at the damaged door, as I was too busy sifting through debris, I organised the celebration service of your extraordinary life with manic precision, it is as if the perfect playlist, the right flowers could somehow patch the gaping hole that had been blown through my life, I used planks of busyness, I hammered in nails of distraction, I covered the broken frame with sheets of obligation and responsibility, hoping that if I kept adding enough layers, or if I kept my hands occupied while my broken heart sat stunned in a corner, I might not notice the damn cold seeping through, after the storm passed, I looked at the wreckage of that door, and thinking to myself, I must repair it, I must find the right tools, the right craftsman, the right amount of time, effort, surely, I could restore the door to exactly what it was before

Ma, I learned to board up the door, finding ways to protect myself from the worst of the grief, so I could keep going, as I built temporary structures that kept out the rain, even if they are provisional, ugly, and reminded me every day of what was lost, because it was necessary, when a door is broken, I could not just leave it open to the elements, since it would let in more than I could handle, I did what I needed to do to survive, knowing that the wind still finds its way through the cracks, for a while, it almost worked, but boards rot, nails rust, and every time, when the weather turns, it tears down my makeshift repairs, it did notify me that you are gone, that you should still be here, although grief entered my life uninvited, it arrived because your love lived here first, even now, even here, even after 46 months, 200 weeks, it is still knocking from the other side

Ma, in those 46 months, 200 weeks, I have also tried to paint over the broken door, making it look from a distance, like it might be whole, but up close, I could still see those cracks showing through the fresh coat of paint, where the wood is splintered, every now and then, whenever something catches on one of those cracks, a smell, a photo, a sound, or a memory, the paint peels back, just for a moment, I see the damage underneath, for a long time, I believed that my job was to repair the damage, so if I worked hard enough, cried enough tears, stayed busy enough, read enough grief articles or simply waited long enough, I would eventually wake up one day, finding your torturous physical absence could somehow become smaller, less devastating, I would restore things, make the place feel safe again, or return to the person I was before your departure

Ma, it has taken me 46 months, 200 weeks to begin to understand that I was wrong, when someone as important as you a mother leaves this world, you do not simply take up less room in our lives, but your absence creates a shape that remains forever, I cannot fix a door that was broken that way, grief is not a DIY project, I cannot buy a replacement, I cannot sand down the rough edges and apply a fresh coat of varnish, calling it good as new, because it cannot be restored to factory settings, your love is one of those things, I can try, and I have, I gathered every tool I could find, talking, writing, crying, screaming, staying busy, staying still, pushing people away, pulling people close, reading everything about grief or avoiding anything about loss, I tried to board up the damage, patch the holes, or strengthen the frame, but there were essential pieces missing

Ma, 46 months, 200 weeks, after losing you, I no longer spend my energy trying to rebuild the door that grief destroyed, though the house I live in now is different from the one before grief arrived, the door is still damaged, and it will always be, the boards are still there, beneath the paint, but it is still my home, and I am still here, learning to live with the draft, learning to wear warmer clothes, learning to sit by the door, just to feel the wind, to remember why the crack is there in the first place, learning that a broken door can still hold value, it still marks a threshold, it still separates inside from outside, and it still has a handle, a frame, a history, yes, it will never be the same, but neither am I, and perhaps that is simply what love looks like after loss, and I am learning, slowly, painfully, to live with the door you left behind, this is my door now, drafty, but mine