Twenty years

Dear Mum,

Even after all this time, it’s still so WEIRD that you are no longer here. Sometimes, it hits me with a sudden raw sadness and instantly, my throat is thick as if it were new all over again.

I have no doubt that I am irrevocably better because of your death; grief humbled me, shattered my sarcastic armour, and made me so much more empathic, more patient, and more open-hearted. I suspect there is more of you in me now, than ever before.

Always, I wish for you to be here.

The worst moments have cut deeper because, on top of everything, I can’t call my Mum.

The joys are tinged with the presence of your absence. I know you would be first on the dance floor, first to open the champagne; you are the first person I want to call.

But the loss of you has meant that, in some way, you have been right here through this becoming. The irony is that much of who I am is only possible because you are not here.

As much as I cannot replace the wholeness of you, I have found ‘other mothers’ of all ages who have bolstered me and sat with me when the moment called, each having some quality I miss in you.

I am heartbroken that you never met Ash - I am sure you would have been good pals.

Often, I have wished to have just one more day: one golden day to ask questions, hear your stories, hold your hand, and breathe in your Red Door scent. I wish you knew how much you are loved, how much you are missed.

Sometimes, I marvel at this life, at the joy that - despite the horrors - seeps in most days. And if I sit with it long enough, I can trace a windy path back to that random Tuesday twenty - TWENTY! - years ago, when you left us.

Always, the bargain enters my head: ‘Would I change this for you to have lived?’

And the answer makes me cry because, without hesitation, I chose my future over my past. I have made a life that I know would not have been possible had I not lost you.

And so, in some way, I have found you again, and this is as perfect as it can ever mortally be.

I miss you every day.

I love you, Mum.