Honoring her memory.

It is unfortunate how little I remember my mother. To be fair, I was only seven when she passed, and it is possible that my brain has erased the trauma from my memories. Sadly, this has resulted in erasing my mother’s memory almost completely from my mind. There were no smartphones at the time and only special occasions were captured on film. Some old photographs help me recreate some of the birthdays I spent with my mother. There should have been video footage of my aunt’s wedding that featured her, but that camera was stolen. Much like the memories that time stole from me.

My family recounts their stories from that time. Every story is different and heavily laced with bias. Did you know that the brain sometimes overwrites your actual memory with an edited version of that memory? Basically, memories in the brain can be edited through personal perspectives and bias. I have heard conflicting accounts about the same incident from different family members. And I trust them all. I spent most of my childhood believing that every story I had heard about my mother was true. Till I had no memories of my own, only stories that could never all be true, and perhaps never were.

My aunt says that I was strong, I did not shed a tear until much later. I don’t think I cried much in the years to come. The first few years I was worried about my family. My concern revolved around my father and how he was dealing with the loss of the love of his life. He did not remarry. He couldn’t find anyone to replace her. I cried because my father’s pain made me sad. I cried when my grandparents teared up. They say I look like her at times. I felt bad about how much they miss their eldest daughter. But personally, I never missed my mother. I was indeed strong. 

It wasn’t until I turned 18 that it truly hit me. I was sad about not having a mother. The things women do with their moms (some of which I have talked about in my other posts), those are the things that got me. I felt that being motherless was a far greater disadvantage than I had calculated. For the first time I questioned my strength : was I strong or was I repressed? I got a tattoo of my mother to remind me of what I had been through, to remind me of the pain that made me who I am. But it still hadn’t hit me like it should. I still wasn’t sad about not having my mother.

I have spent years looking at the bright side of this tragedy. My emotional maturity, my ability to empathize, my writing capabilities were all a result of loss. Was it a coping mechanism? Was it acceptance? I have only worried for how her death affected my loved ones. I have only worried about the practical ramifications of being motherless. Why have I not spent years trying to get to know her? I have only tried to move on. 

Today, on the twentieth anniversary of her death, it hit me like it should. I don’t know my mother. I have never honored her memory. My mother was a person, a daughter, a sister, a wife and a friend. She was a mother too, of course. And every mother deserves that at least her children mourn her. Today is the first time I mourn. I promise that I will try to get to know my mother better. I owe her that much, other than owing her my life.