My poor little mam, hates having her photograph taken. Went to her sons wedding and made it through even though her legs were hurting her so much. She was shattered when she got home and was pleased to be able to sit down in her chair. I thought at one point we were going to have to give her a fireman’s lift to get her from the car into the house but slowly and surely she made it.
We all have wounds. Sometimes they heal, that’s if we let them. Sometimes they leave scars that stay with us forever, a reminder that we can’t move on. Our past dominates our future, but is that a good thing. We are who we are because of our past, we embrace our heritage, our upbringing, and we celebrate it. But what about the wounds, the memories that hurt. Do they make us who we are?
Do we get caught up in a never ending circle of blaming ourselves or regretting what we have done or said.
I hate that moment when you are breezing through life and something comes along to pull the rug from under you. I had a moment like that recently. Something that feels like I’m about to lose a part of my life that has happy memories for me and gives me a connection to my parents and childhood. It has made me think about how I would cope if I lost my mum. Badly is the conclusion I have come to.
Our lives are forever changed, moulded, or destroyed by loss. We can never go back, never be the person we were. But we do learn to smile again, laugh at jokes, have fun. That I do know, because when my dad died I never thought I’d be able to do any of those things. And we still do little things in memory of. The tributes may fade and disappear but the memory is still there.