An apology for forgetting but also remembering
Saturday marked 19 years since my mother’s passing. Over that time, the last three months of each year have become a sort of strange, secret ritual of mourning, marked for almost all of that period by one recurring nightmare and paired with the milestones of her October birthday, her death four weeks later, and then my birthday four weeks after that. It’s nice… it’s even… the musician in me is delighted by the cadence of this remembering.
In the first few years, on her anniversary, I visited her grave and took flowers and I prayed. I faithfully sent my brother photographs of whatever I had done on our behalf, and every time he said, “Oh, is it today?” Eventually I stopped telling him, although I never stopped including him in my rituals of remembering. I can’t recall when it stopped – the annual pilgrimage. I liked it. Being sad with purpose is kind of beautiful, and it made me feel worthy on some level. But one year I think I forgot to go until it was dark, and I thought, perhaps I’ll just show up tomorrow. And it had happened. The first moment of forgetting.
For years after the flowers, I still observed the day. I sequestered myself away and sat in thoughtful repose. I looked at photographs. I wrote. Since 2007, the 7th of November has been a quietly monumental day in my calendar. Until this year, when I forgot entirely.
To admit to forgetting evokes a rising bile and a moral discomfort I can barely contain. You forgot your mother’s anniversary? Yes. I did. What’s more? I didn’t remember until the night after. I feel numb, like I accidentally erased a folder from the computer or let go of a piece of paper in a breeze… Gone and not coming back. You can’t grasp for it – it’s too late. All I can ask myself is: what happens once we forget once?
As dramatic as it might seem, there is a sense – a fear – that this is a threshold of forgetting. A milestone from which I cannot retreat. If I forget the things I vowed to remember, does it erase all the remembering I so feverishly did?
Last month, having just arrived in London to see my brother and his family, I found myself sad and a little angry when I realised that on her birthday there would be no moment of acknowledgement, nothing said to the kids, her grandchildren, whom she never met. A few days later, over lunch with my dear friend Mark, I tried to explain how I felt. He said, “I don’t say this to hurt you, but you might become the only person who ever remembers her.” It did hurt. Probably because I suspected he was right.
And so you see, my forgetting on Saturday perhaps marks the beginning of some kind of erasure, and that is a devastating thought. Because the erosion of a person is much like the erosion of one’s favourite beach. The natural forces will slowly but certainly eat up every little shadowy nook and moment of beauty and cast it into the air or out to sea. And whatever returns will never be the same as what has gone. And that is probably okay. It is life; it is the nature of all things.
But what shall I become? Who shall remember me only to forget me? Who am I if the people who made me are forgotten? Is part of me erased also? Can I choose which parts?
We say that people live on forever so long as they are remembered, but what happens when our remembering changes? What happens when we gain a new understanding of what was, or our own experience forces a re-evaluation of a faithful story, or we lose our grasp on the names and the faces, the precious moments and places?
I don’t know the answer. For now, I can’t help but wonder what comes after forgetting.
As we grow older and come to terms with who we are – whether we like it or not – we can also choose to come to terms with our parents: with what we wish we didn’t know but do, and with what we wish had been different but was not.
As I sit down to write, I am perhaps coming to the conclusion that the 2026 version of remembrance (which looks like forgetting) might be the arrival of a new blueprint. A version where, instead of looking backward, I notice what I carry forward (thanks to her), choose what I leave behind, and allow the haunting to dissipate.
I am my mother’s daughter.
You will see her in me.
Soft, olive, age-defying skin.*
Mega-watt charisma.**
The ability to talk to anyone.
A strong sense of social justice.
Mad ad-lib skills.
Massive flirt.
Excellent diction.
A knack for mischief.
Quick wit and a twinkle in my eye.
Late-night operator.
A refusal to be quiet or take things lying down.
Not afraid to start a fight for the right reasons.
Rules are made to be broken.
Radiant fucking joy.
*thank you **that’s from both parents, granted
And for all the parts I choose to leave behind, I thank them for shaping me into the woman I am today.
What I am and will become is only possible because of what came before.
Sorry I forgot your anniversary. I may do it again. I was busy living.
