Remembering to Forget

When my mom first passed away, which was truly not that long ago-- it can still be counted in weeks-- it was the biggest, most important thing in my life. It still is, and likely will be for a very long time, forever. But I can’t “allow” it to be at the forefront of my every thought anymore. My life can longer revolve around her loss, funeral plans, arrangements, the business of death, or sitting with old friends trying to process what is happening. I have to go to work and run errands and shop for things that my mom will never know I own. As the day she left gets further and further in the past, it becomes less real that she is gone. There is no longer the newness of it all, the sharp, shooting pangs of hurt and sorrow and disbelief. It is now a part of me, or rather a missing part of me--like an amputated limb. I can still feel the throbbing ache of her absence. When her death was new and surreal, I wouldn’t have to remind myself that she was gone. It was too near. But now, I almost forget. It is like getting a new pair of glasses. All you can see for the first few days is the frames in the periphery and the sharpness of everything. But eventually you get used to seeing the world through them. I pick up the phone to call her. I think of her first when I have a story to tell. The thing that I notice the most is that I want to take pictures of things to show her later. I always carry a camera, and it is like she is away and would hate to miss out on what I am seeing. I have literally held my camera in my hands and as I look through the viewfinder, I realize that she no longer has mortal eyes to see the things I want so much to share with her. Not that I can possibly forget that she is gone. It seems to be all I can remember.