I realised probably too late today it was the anniversary of mum’s death. She died on November 7, 1984, and this photograph (attached) was taken at her “final birthday”, February 7, 1984. I was on the verge of my nineteenth birthday, and mum was only 62 years old when she had a heart-attack. She had also suffered with asthma and kidney disease. On the morning of her heart-attack, I tried unsuccessfully to bring her back to life, so you might imagine her death has been one of the most significant moments in my life.
Though the date “November 7” is one I remember strongly (two days before my own birthday), I guess the day slipped me by, until late tonight I checked my phone and realised the date.
In the early days after mum and dad died, I would remember the dates every year. The first anniversary, the first Christmas, the first birthday are the dates you most often remember in those early years. I would often think about them. The memories were strong.
But thirty-something years later, it’s sometimes hard to remember the “details”. These days, some memories are very strong; others not as much. The intimate moments are strong. The smells. The sounds. But some thing have passed by. That’s what happens, I guess, with the passing of time.
And in twelve years time, I’ll be the same age as her when she died. Wow.
There’s a much bigger story to tell, and one day I’ll share it, but not yet.
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