Why do we write? We write lest we forget, lest the passage of time blur those memories, dull the impression of those moments. We write to remember, so that in the cycle of life if we repeat that phase, we have an anchoring point. We write to be forgiven, to face our mistakes.
But remembrance is a double-edged sword. While there are the memories of beautiful times, there are also undertones of ugliness…one can’t exist without the other, there would be no story otherwise.
The mind is a friend and a foe; it cushions you from harsh truths, comforts you, blanks out at strategic times to ensure you keep up a cheerful demeanour. But in the process, a lot is swept under the carpet where it lies gathering dust but doesn’t disappear.
The process of blurring has begun for me. Already when I think of the dark days of mom’s illness, the edges seem frayed, it takes just a bit longer to melt the wall of distance and submerge myself in that situation. But return I must because there are things to ponder upon.
When mom was unwell, I was out of control, agitated and a nervous wreck. My dad was the reasonable one, the wise one.
This wasn’t one of those troubles I could escape from and run and hide behind book covers. So, I initially reacted in the worst manner by shouting at fate, at my mom, at the nurse who had left us in the lurch, at the doctors who didn’t give a proper diagnosis. I bullied my mother on not trying hard enough to get better, for hadn’t the doctors said she could get better if she exercised.
In the process, I forgot there are many types of illness, some that get better and some that don’t. And how frightening it must have been for my mother to lose her ability to walk and sit up, to take care of herself.
Not a day goes by that I don’t seek forgiveness for the things that were said and the many things that were left unsaid. Turning back the clock is impossible and yet some things just can’t be undone otherwise.