On Mother’s Day without her mother

Today is Mother’s Day,

and it will be my third without my mother. One of the things that no one tells you about growing up is that these special days get sadder. Christmases begin to be marked by pain and grief as much as by joy. Birthdays mock you.

It’s been two years and four months since Mum died after a long illness, and I thought I wanted to die, too. She, it, that, no longer consume my every waking moment. She is no longer my first thought in the mornings — apart from nights when I still wake with a start from a nightmare in which my mother dies suddenly, and I am keening and wailing in agonies of horror and violent grief. I realise it’s a just a dream, thank god, but then I remember that it’s true; she is dead. And she has been for a while now. For the rest of the day I’m not right.

I don’t go to her grave often. Although I know she isn’t anywhere, I don’t feel she is there. Soon after she died, I spent most of two years in south Kerry, the place she was happiest. The beaches, our house, and the fuchsia bushes were all her memorial stones. The whole place was her monument. Every day, I got better. And then my nephew was born, and I knew it was time for me to go back to the city. I don’t go to her grave often, but this sweet little boy, the grandson who would have been her moon and stars — he’s my monument now. Grief is a terrible love, and I’ve rerouted some of it: I need to love him enough for both of us. I suppose if she’s anywhere, she’s in that fierce overwhelming, addictive love.

It is hard to imagine life before him; but I remember when I couldn’t imagine a life after her. I’m getting better. I miss her very much.