The year after

Tomorrow, mum’s house will change hands. A year to the day since she died. My brothers and their family have valiantly been dealing with all of that while I check-in from abroad. We talk about the sandwich generation, but what I am? The beef patty generation? No kids, no partner, no parents, just the daily grind. I’m glad I didn’t have a ‘proper job’ to go to for a while because I felt untethered for months. I had to get used to a life where I don’t call her most Sunday nights to hear about her week. I don’t send her postcards from my travels or photos of the art I think she’d like (she was an avid amateur artist). I stop myself from thinking about the places we could go on holiday next. But most importantly, I had to take in the fact that I didn’t die when she died. The training wheels are off, that’s all. Someone told me (in greek) ‘may you live to remember her’, so I’ll do that. I’ll remember her and keep going.