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My Missing Person.

To my lovely mum.

My missing person.

My imaginary person.

Sometimes when things are all foggy in my heart or head I picture all that you would have been. (The likelihood though, is that it’s all that you, ‘could‘ have been, rather than the certainty of ‘would’ have been. But I crave the unobtainable certitude of knowing, knowing that you would have filled that hole in my heart and head and solved the case of the missing puzzle piece I often feel).

When I want a chat about ‘life’ and it’s not met by others I engage with, I like to believe it would have been met by you.

When I want a long walk and a deep and meaningful, I want the option that I could take that stroll with you.

Would we stay up late on the phone talking? Would we share a bottle of red together (you loved red, you would have been happy I finally acquired a taste for it!) all cosy on the couch and laugh and be close like hashtags of mum’s and daughters on Mother’s Day? Would we live near each other?

It hurts that as I start to think about children, you will then become an even larger (somehow) missing person, not just in my life but in ours, in theirs. You won’t be on that journey with me. Hey, you’re not even there to have that conversation with about children.

Argh. Ouch.

Ouch that you’re not here and not because of natural causes. Arguably not by choice either, but still. Ouch. Such a waste. I miss your beauty. I miss your hair. I miss your touch (oh what I’d give for an embrace!). I miss your smile. I miss your face. I can’t even imagine your voice easily. That hurts. Would it have been easier if you died in an age of me having had a camera phone and videos of you and voice recordings or would that have made it harder? I’ll never know. That’s the thing about death. About grief. We never know. We can’t pick and choose the circumstances how we’d want. Everyone would be so different. It’s not all about me. There are so many more who miss you.

I guess all I have is this ability to imagine you as my ‘would have’ been ‘go to’ person. It’s almost like a belief in God. I get my own way of believing that you would have been there. Soothing me. Calming me. Reassuring me. Laughing with me. Stroking hair of my face when I’m sad. Putting an arm around me. Giving me advice.

I know even the best of mother daughter relationships don’t exist in such perfection, but at least I get to imagine. It’s my way of coping.

Life moves on and time passes so quickly. New people enter and yet childhood memories surface as easily as blood from a scab that keeps getting knocked. That’s how my heart feels after a while of not yearning for you and then being struck by pangs.

Grief. Out of nowhere, when you thought you had ‘healed’ or reached the near maximum height of healing in some way it reminds you there’s never an end. Just when you think you have done all you can to an extent to ‘let go’, pangs of pain return.

Grief, re-materialising in my life.

Piercing a hole that expands and contracts through the chapters as I grow.

I wish you’d return and you didn’t have to be my missing person. My missing heart piece. My imaginary person. So I’d get to have a normal ‘mother daughter’ argument or experience. So I could moan to you. Would you give tough love or be soppy? Would it depend on each situation? I’ll never know.

So for now, you’re my missing person. My imaginary person you will continue to be. However I want you.

Come and visit me mum. In some way or another.

I love and miss you deeply and sorely.

Abs, x

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