Alex Warren’s latest song “I MISS YOU MORE” captures a unique feeling I’ve been struggling to comprehend over the last year, and one I wasn’t prepared for when it came to long-term grief.
My third year without Mum has been trickier than I thought. They say time heals all wounds, but as it turns out, that’s not always the case. After spending the first two years processing the initial loss, this third year has had me realising that time without Mum is only going to get longer and longer.
As things change more from what they were like when Mum was here, I get this strange panicky feeling that we’re leaving her behind and she can’t catch up. There are the big changes and milestones, of course. She doesn’t yet know that I’ve moved into my own apartment, or that my sister’s got a great new job, and has been promoted twice. She hasn’t met her grandnieces yet, or seen her three children become independent adults with our own lives.
But then there are the trivial things. She doesn’t yet know there’s a The Devil Wears Prada 2; she doesn’t know that Dolly Parton and Tim Curry have died; she never got to watch the final season of Stranger Things, or keep up with all the local gossip and funny stories. She doesn’t know that the waterlilies in her pond flower like crazy every spring, that her irises are still going strong, or that the local partridges had babies.
Although they may seem less significant in the bigger picture, all of these, and thousands more, are topics that I would have talked to her about, and I can’t.
On top of this, everything I do feels 90% complete. Every achievement feels not quite celebrated enough because Mum isn’t here to celebrate with me. Every problem feels not quite solved, because even the best help from the best people can’t top a mother’s advice. Every audience I perform in front of feels not quite full, because even if it’s sold out, one person never got to see the show.
And despite knowing very well that she’s gone, I still find myself doing what I can to keep her present in everyday life, in the hopes that it keeps her ‘relevant’. I’ll save items to my Amazon Wishlist that I think she’d like for Christmas, and I have a playlist on Spotify called “Songs I think Mum would have liked”. Even though I know these aren’t going to fill that empty 10%, I just can’t let these little things pass me by without making some sort of acknowledgement of her existence. It just feels wrong.
There’s so much to unpack when it comes to grief because it’s so huge; it’s almost like asking someone to explain being awake. But to put it simply: grief is weird. It’s always there, as consistent as the sun. And like the sun, you can’t control it. It can blind you one day, and then give you a gentle glow the next.
For example, one day, I could notice someone driving the same car as Mum’s, and the feeling comes and goes as fast as the car. Other times, I’ll see the car, and that’s enough to knock me down all day.
Spotting a bright yellow Corsa isn’t always just a reminder of Mum; it’s a reminder of all the times I sat in that ‘banana car’ (as she liked to call it) on the way to school, to the shops, on holiday, with her in the driver’s seat, listening to her music taste, smelling her scent.
Grieving isn’t just about missing her as a person; it’s also about missing the time in which I lived with her in my life. I suppose most people grieve their past in one way or another, mostly childhood, when things were more colourful, innocent, and free. But this year, three years on, I’ve really been struggling to accept that this is permanent. I know that life of ten, even five, years ago is irretrievable now; it is for everyone as we grow up, and we must look forward to avoid wasting the present.
But it’s tricky to look forward when you’re leaving someone behind.
Jake Grayson Writes 