We finally finished unpacking the last of our storage boxes two nights ago, after my clever husband completed the epic process of laminating, trimming, notching, sanding, joining, mounting and varnishing some beautiful Meranti bookshelves for our living room. One of the books I rediscovered is a diary of mine from 1998, when I was 15, that has been in storage for 8 years. It is mostly about the dying six months of my two-and-a-bit-year relationship with my boyfriend at the time, as well as emotions around my parent’s divorce, but there are some snippets about life and my family that were fascinating to read over. Here are two of my entries about my mother:
“I can’t believe how much Mom understands. Not each individual problem, just how hard it is and… so much. I wish my boyfriend could hear her understanding; hear what she says to me, and how true it all is. She gives me hope, but she doesn’t lie to me and tell me everything’s going to work out. He would understand why I talk to her if he could hear how she understands. She knows she can’t do anything – it’s my journey and my pain, and I have to deal with it. She doesn’t try to interfere. She doesn’t ever even ask, she just listens if I want to tell.”
A month later: “It’s SO good to have Mom home from her work trip. It’s strange how reassuring it is, even if it physically makes no difference to my routine. Our mothers really do play such an important role in our lives. I can always only hope to be as good a mother as mine is. I wonder how few children even think that. Most of them talk about how they’ll never do what their parents did! Although of course they usually either do, or they realise that their parents did it for their own good.”
Tomorrow will mark two years since her death. A time for reflection, and for honouring the amazing woman she was.