What Kind of Son Am I?
I forgot again today, and I can't help but wonder if there is something wrong with me... I mean, she was my mother, and yet I keep forgetting that she is gone. It is not a denial kind of forgetting either, I know enough to know that that would be normal, but the thing is that it is just a forgetting kind of forgetting. What does that make me? What kind of son am I? Sure, I could rationalize it from here until next week, but those would be nothing but excuses. I could easily blame it on some sort of lack of closure due to the circumstances surrounding what happened, or where it happened, or the fact that she had been cremated and her ashes scattered long before I had a chance to say goodbye, but deep down I know that that's not it.
I know that if I were to say anything to Jim he would come up with a thousand reasons why this is not my fault... and in nine hundred and ninety-nine of them it would probably end up being her fault somehow. I can see he is still angry, even if he has been trying to hide it, me? I'm just grateful that he has been so busy trying to keep his anger in check that he hasn't tried to confront me again. I know that is not the most charitable thought I've ever had, but I really need this time to come to terms with everything that has happened in my own mind... of course, if the fact that I keep forgetting about it is any indication, I'm not doing a very good job of it.
I look around and no matter how hard I try I can't find anything different. The loft still looks the same, sentinel clean, I'm back at work, and my routine has not been affected, my friends are still the same, and with a few exceptions --courtesy of Jim and Simon for the most part-- they don't even know what happened. There is not a single shred of tangible evidence to remind me of my mother's absence, and that bothers me.
I'm standing in the kitchen as I have done countless times before, making myself some tea, and nothing, absolutely nothing, is different even though it should be. I hear the kettle whistle, and the sound is the same as it has always been. I let the infusion steep for a couple of minutes as I always do before pouring it into the same mug I always use. It is a mundane task, one of those meaningless little rituals that are part of everyday life, those that remain unchanged no matter what. One of those little things that most people use to remind themselves that nothing is different and suddenly I can't take it any more. I throw the mug against the wall and I watch it shatter into countless broken pieces. I know I'll have to clean that up before Jim comes home, but for now I am alone and I cry.