Month: December 2018

My mum passed away recently, abruptly killed by a vicious disease that transformed her from functional to dead in a matter of weeks. I never thought I would care if she died, since I hadn’t actually had a relationship with her past age 5, but, turns out, I do. And rather deeply too. Unfortunately, by the time I saw her again, for the first time in almost two decades, she could no longer speak and died soon after, without leaving me any note, video or message. All I have now are her objects, the words of strangers who knew her better than I ever did, questions, buckets of regret and a reservoir of wishes I know will never be fulfilled. All of a sudden, I am painfully aware of how lousy I am at making wise choices, as was she, and am no longer certain if what I believed was best for myself is truly the best thing to be doing with my life at all. All of a sudden, all I want is to sit and rethink my whole life, to scour her apartment for information on the person she was, to cry and learn from our mistakes, and to rewrite my narrative to incorporate the lessons I have since learned from her existence and passing. I don’t know when I’ll be done with this, if I’ll ever be done with this; I can only leave you with the lyrics of Passenger’s Let Her Go and tell you that my eyes fill up every time I hear it now. Publication of Eritis Mea will be delayed.