The truth is, I was tired of being sad all the time, of feeling like I was just going through the motions, of constantly being trapped in the past.
Bazı hikâyeler tam tahmin ettiğin gibi ilerler. Bazılarıysa son sayfada tüm bildiklerini sorgulatır. 🤯
Ters köşeleri seviyorsan, seni sonuna kadar merakta bırakacak 3 kitap önerisini keşfetmeye hazır ol!
Instead, I’d concentrated what little strength I possessed on getting myself through twelve months of firsts without Mum: the first Mother’s Day, the first birthday, and then of course Christmas, all the while being only too aware that the hardest “first” of all, the first anniversary of losing her, was still ahead of me.
Because that’s the thing about grief no one ever tells you: it’s greedy. You don’t notice at first because you’re still in shock, and there’s so much to do, from obtaining death certificates to canceling utility contracts, but hour by hour, day by day, it eats up every last scrap of energy you have, leaving you spent and empty. Perhaps that in part was why, as time passed and the world kept turning, as friends got engaged and others had babies, selling Mum’s house simply got pushed to the bottom of my ever-growing to-do list.
In an ideal world, or at least a world where I only had myself to think about, I would’ve simply decanted the contents of the box around the apartment. I would’ve temporarily put Mum’s vinyl on display on a shelf, with the intention of perhaps ordering some of those frames specifically designed for albums so that I could hang them artfully on the wall.
In an ideal world I would’ve hammered half a dozen nails into one of the walls in the bedroom, then draped Mum’s scarves from them, so that I could not only see them every day but also once in a while be reminded to put one on and wear it to work or on a night out.
In an ideal world I would’ve shifted Guy’s expensive Eames House Bird ornament, his fancy silver Tom Dixon bowl, and his towering Georg Jensen vase out of the way and replaced them with Mum’s broken duck ornament, her knock-off Mason Cash mixing bowl, and her blue vase from Anglesey. But this was far from an ideal world; if it were, Mum would still be in it. Instead I took the box into the bedroom and slid back the wardrobe door.
There was still so much to process, so much to understand, to come to terms with, that the silence of the apartment felt like a welcome friend.