One year today. Wow.
There are moments that I forget you are gone.
Like when I seek to phone my brother, but dial six of the
seven digits of your phone number
instead, so strong is that muscle memory of dialing the house line for decades.
There are moments when I forget you are gone.
Like when your granddaughter sticks her tongue into her
cheek in a moment of intense concentration, and I think, ‘I must remember to
tell mum how much Heidi looks like her when she does that’.
There are moments when I forget you are gone.
Like when the kids hit a milestone and I wonder about when I hit that milestone myself as a child, and I have an impulse to email you
about it, or call, or get on Skype.
But in all those moments, I do snap to the realization that
you are not here. I know it’s true: last year on this day, I held your hand as you
confirmed your departure.
But in all those moments of remembering that you are not
here, I realize, that in fact, you are still here.
In the ends of my fingertips, in the face of my kids, in my
deeply ingrained memories, you are still here.
And always will be.
I—we—miss you, mum. Love you.
