Forgetting

I feel like I’m forgetting things. Forgetting little memories, little moments, little snippets of my mom. It’s been six years since she died, so it makes sense. What did she get me for that birthday? What we do for that holiday? I have clear snapshots of particular moments, once I love and ones I hate, ones that I doubt will ever leave my brain. But the small moments, I’m losing them. It feels wrong.

We’ve all moved away from my hometown, so her graveside feels deserted. I visit her about once a year, and even though I know she’s not actually there I wonder if she feels lonely, if I should visit her more, if I’m letting her down by not being there. In my head I know she would think that’s ridiculous - I think about her often, and she would say that that’s enough. But her graveside is still without flowers for most of the year.

We talk about her less, too. Fewer remembrances with family and friends. She’s not the first thing people ask me about anymore, not the main topic of my conversations. So much has happened, so much has changed in the past six years. Life has kept moving, for my dad, my sister, for me. Are the stories of her, the memories, still there, but unspoken? Or are we all starting to forget?

Her sister died when my mom was in her early 30’s, and I wonder if she went through this too. The forgetting the small moments, the stories of her best friend spoken less frequently. I can’t imagine what that felt like at 40, at 50, when so many who knew her sister had moved on, had led separate lives. Was there grief for her too, in the continued loss?

I don’t want to keep forgetting. I want to remember, all of it. And since I know that’s not possible, I want to remember as much as I can. If you’re still reading this, almost eight years after I first started this blog, and you have a story about my mom, will you share it with me? I miss her, and I don’t want to forget.