Another month has nearly slipped by, a month on top of the year since Mom died. I've barely noticed.
There's stuff going on here--new job, Tabbatha and I making plans to move in together--and that's keeping me occupied. There's literally no time for thinking of such things.
Even when there is time, it's not dwelt upon. My siblings and I got together last month on the anniversary of her death. I expected much weeping and remembering, but actually we just kind of sat around and shot the breeze, discussing everything but Mom. Memories weren't shared and--oddly--weren't particularly missed.
How did this happen? I feel like i'm missing a stage of grief, like I went from absolute sorrow to total acceptance in about a week. The breakdown, the emotion, everything I expected to happen never did, and it's becoming clear, never will.
For my entire life, mom was always there, the person I could count on, the person who would always be there, who would never judge me, however big my mistakes. Without her--what?
As my sister Ann put it, once Mom left us we became orphans, forced in our forties and fifties to finally admit we were adults, to accept the fact that she wouldn't be there to offer advice or comforting words, to guide us on our paths.
A void, then. But not an ending. I met Tabbatha, and not just her but Paul. I'd dated women with kids before, but only briefly. I always assumed kids would never be a part of my life, because...well, just because.
And yet here they are, and my relationship with them evolves further everyday. I'm learning that what I want can't always come first. When there's a kid in the picture, he's important, he matters--no, we matter, the three of us together.
Sometimes I wonder if I could have arrived at this place if Mom was still around, if it took that unexpected stumble into adulthood to make it happen. She's gone, but by her very absence, it seems, she gave me a final push, guided me to the path I'd needed for so long.
