Today is the third anniversary of my mother’s death. It felt a little different this year. See, when I cross into October, I start to feel this change in me. I start to feel solemn and, well, just sad about everything. A blanket of sadness falls over me. I’m not upset, or angry, maybe melancholy is a better way to describe it.
Now, I say it felt different this year because I don’t feel the weight of it on everything today. The past two years, I didn’t want to do anything, just be left alone. This year, I can function without being dragged down. I can think of my mother without feeling like I’m going to fall apart, and I can even think about the silly things she would say and do. That is different from last year. I think this day will always have a despondent feeling to it, and that’s okay.
What I did think about today was how I knew she was going to die even though no one would say that she was dying. She was in the hospital and each day she was getting worse. Dad kept telling me that it wasn’t time to come home, that she could still improve. We all knew it wasn’t true, and I didn’t know what I should be doing.
So, one day when I left work, and the office was in lower Manhattan, around Wall Street, I just started walking up Broadway listening to music. I walked through the Financial District, through the Civic Center, SOHO, The Village, to Union Square, to the Flatiron District, to Koreatown, the Garment District and stopped at Times Square. About two hours and three and a half miles. It was getting dark when I took the subway home.
That was a helpless moment; walking and not wanting to get anyplace.
