The 12th anniversary

Earlier this week something completely randomly and not at all in context reminded me of a conversation I had with my mother when I was 12 years old. During that conversation she made a throwaway comment at something that wasn’t intended to hurt me, but back then it did and I remember thinking about it several times afterwards. I completely forgot about it until this week.

Yet again the anniversary of her death is coming up and I’m thinking about her a lot. By which I mean I’m thinking about her more than once a week or so. This year, strangely, feels different and I’m not sure why.

A few weeks ago I was at the pub with a former colleague and came to talk about Mother’s Day as it was that weekend in the UK. I never spoke with this colleague much when we were working together, but for some reason we were sharing stories about our mothers within minutes. Her mother, as it turns out, also died of cancer though far more recently and she went through years of chemotherapy and more before dying in a hospice. The more the conversation progressed the less comfortable I felt with it, particularly the kind of things I was sharing with what is effectively a stranger, but it also felt good taking about it to someone who understands and who went through the same experiences.

This year marks the 12th anniversary of my mother’s death and I’m not sure what to feel or what I should feel like. For a combination of reasons I always dislike this time of year, but it also seems to be getting more and more difficult and it tends to be small things that bring back memories. Memories I don’t want to have and would quite happily to remain buried.

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