Marking the Day

When I was 29 my mother died. I was in a period of intense self-evaluation, and a very fragile state of mind. I am fond of saying that had been broke and broken. Once my mother died I was beyond broken; I was inconsolable.

Every year it has been the same: my mother's birthday, followed by my divorced parents anniversary, the date of my mother's death, and then Mother's Day, all within a five-week period. I used to call it "the season".

Then, long about year seven, all of sudden it got easier. I don't know what made the difference, but I remember where I was and what I was doing when I realized I had changed. My step mother and I were having lunch at a chain restaurant in the mall with a friend of hers. We were talking about our parents. I was describing the events, and I realized it was actually the seventh anniversary of my mother's death, and unlike all of the previous anniversaries, I hadn't remembered it. It was the only time that I have actually been happy about not remembering something of great personal signifigance.

I had another similar milestone this year; I didn't remember the anniversary of my mother's death until the next day. It wasn't until someone told me Mother's Day was coming up that I realized I had weathered the season nearly pain-free.

I used to ask my mom about my grandfather who died the year I was born. I asked her why she could talk about him without crying. She said, "The pain is still there, it's just no longer a new fact." I never thought that I would be thinking this about the person who taught me that, but time really does heal all wounds, and my mother's death has ceased to be a new fact.