18:57. I’m finally dealing with the seemingly small, but-mammoth-to-me task, of organizing photos from my mom’s Canadian memorial after her sudden death in January, so that I can post them online somewhere for European friends and family who knew and loved her. To help them with closure.
Had Covid-19 not happened, today the kids would be on their spring school break, instead of just another day at home. We’d be travelling by van up to Holland, making a stop in the usual campsite along the way, at the top of France.
In two days from now, my sister, Dad, and my husband and kids and I would be on a boat with Dutch relatives, spreading some of mom’s ashes on the North Sea. A trip organized in February, by my mom’s brother.
In three days from now, we would be having a huge family gathering, filled with music and laughter and real, present, warm smiles, tears, and arms, to celebrate her life, in the Netherlands.
It was planned to be at a cousin’s place, all of us camping in their field, as we have done before, some years ago when she was still alive, and still part of the life of the party, with her guitar and her smiling, gathering voice.
Of course the European memorial was cancelled, when Covid happened. We all agreed it was for the best, back in the beginning of March. Of course, it’s not like there really seems to be a choice, in the end.
I want to share my photos with the Dutch relatives, instead, especially of the Canadian memorial, with the Canadian friends and family present… they’ve been wanting to see… and of course I’ve sent a few already… but every time I put myself to the task of putting an album online, I can’t manage it.
I took hundreds of photos. Of the memorial, mom’s life, her paintings, her room… everything.
But I don’t want to share them. I can’t figure out why.
She’s still not dead to me. I don’t want her to be dead. I want her to be with us, at this ongoing celebration of life, instead.
But it’s not the same online.
It’s not the same online.
It’s not the same