My mother’s birthday was this week. She died in 1991. I was 11 and that’s a long, long time ago. Strangest thing though — every year, I think about her birthday in August. I consider it, reflect upon it, wait for it. And every year, it passes me by. Every. Year. I. Forget.
I mean, I’m not bogged down with guilt over this. It’s just weeeeeeird. When I say I forget, I mean really forget. Not a thought about her, until a phone call or email from a thoughtful family member who did remember. Same thing for her death day. I always want to cite it as November 31, but I damn well know November has just 30 days.
Some sort of subconscious self preservation? Possibly. In any case, I thought about her this morning. It’s an odd thing, to miss someone so hard that you don’t really much remember.