Remembering

One of the most frustrating things is trying to remember her face without the help of a photograph. Trying to remember the way she smiled, trying to remember the sound of her voice, and the way she talked and laughed, without the help of a video. And even those things can’t capture her perfectly as she was. They’re just tiny snippets that revive her for a second, a minute… And I worry that there’ll come a point when I can’t remember her face from a memory rather than a photograph.

It’s difficult, because it feels like she’s preserved in my memories. But they will inevitably fade. Just yesterday I was trying to imagine having a conversation with her – how she talked, how we talked to each other – and I realised that with each passing day my ability to remember her like that is fading. It almost feels like the more time that passes since she died, since I last saw her, last spoke to her, the more she dies again.

And I still haven’t visited her grave. I’m sure there will be a day when I feel like the time is right to, but a part of me can’t help but think that there’s no point to it. She’s not there. “Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep.” That’s what they read out at her burial. But I will go. Because I know she would have wanted me to. And because some part of me hopes it will bring some kind of closure or catharsis.

I’ll bring her some purple flowers on a sunny day. I’m just waiting for the time to feel right. Or maybe I’m scared of what I’ll feel.