I’m old. Meaning, I’m 63. Meaning, I’m not that old in today’s world. But when I was young, my mother died. At the time, it was a destruction to my being; it halted my life in ways that I couldn't explain. I couldn't bring myself to buy new underwear or socks, because she had bought them for me. I clung to whatever things connected me to a woman who was taken too soon; ripped away by a distraught disease. And so I pulled back, on everything I could. So as to prevent the tearing away of anything further.
The point is: this event was momentous for me. It broke me. And while I must admit that over time it served to make me stronger - as I was forced to put myself back together and determined to do so with the greatest of care so as to ensure that my world was built on the strongest foundation - it was no easy task.
And the point is: now that I am old, that story is of little significance to anyone that I come in contact with. To those who have known me for a long time and did not experience loss until much later in life, it is unfathomable. But, it is old news. To those who met me later in life and know only the version of me that I built in the aftermath, it is of little significance to how they perceive me. They have all suffered losses by now. Everyone my age has lost someone, has someone they wish they could speak to just once more, shout down the hall to just once more, squeeze once more.
And the point is: I fear that, therefore, I have finally, truly lost the person that I so fretfully fought to stop from going.
The event has lost the significance that it once had as a differentiator to my character. It used to receive respect. It used to evoke silence in people. They would ask about my family and I would list the living members. And with hesitation they would ask, “And your mom?” And I would say that she had passed away a few years earlier. And they would comfort me and apologize.
But no longer. Because her disappearance - the loss of anyone’s mother, I mean - has become a normal occurrence among people my age.
And yet, it is no less significant to me. It is still a defining characteristic by which I perceive myself. It still plays a role in deciding which things I deem worthy of getting flustered over. It is still in me. It is still me.
People say loss gets easier with time. That’s not true. You just get better at dealing with it. And even so, I do not know if I have gotten any better at dealing with it. I pretend I have, but, I still lie in bed late at night, thinking of her. Thinking all the things you assume someone would think as they crave to see someone they know they will never see again.
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