Writing this, it’s one of those mid-summer evenings, where it’s golden hour so late in the day. Like those that I used to spend out on the veranda, the long white tablecloth concealing the pine table in need of sanding down: Dad has started the barbecue relatively late - again - and Mum is retorting ‘Every time, James’ - again. Martha, the dog, rolls around with her long pink toy (my sister’s old scarf), somehow managing to wear it around her neck, strutting off proud and glamorous. The batch of elderflower cordial Mum made in April has been dented by this point and we all sit, watching the burning sun slowly sink behind Wolstonbury Hill. Mum says something sentimental like she used to say in these moments. Something like, ‘Remember this, kids’. I used to find these sorts of comments that Mum frequently made cringe. Now she’s not here, there’s an ironic and bittersweet poignance to them.
So far this summer, it wasn’t hot enough and then it was too hot. Now it’s too humid and I haven’t been sleeping so well. I’m in danger of wishing it to be September so that it gets a little cooler and those mosquitoes that have made themselves so well acquainted in my bedroom disappear into Autumn’s cooling embrace - (where do they all go, anyway?). My nose has been blocked for the last three weeks and doesn’t show any sign of letting up soon. It feels like a stark contrast to those sunny afternoons in the old family home.
When comparing these two moments, it’s easy to get angry with time’s passing and to think “Things were so much better back then”. I’ve always been a very nostalgic person, often too much so, and these comparisons only seem to vindicate that nostalgia. With each passing season, that moment with Mum on the veranda slips further into the past, increasingly out of reach and unfamiliar with my current being; it’s not that I’m in a bad place at the moment, it’s just very, very different. Recently, it’s not felt like another time, but a whole separate reality; I find myself taken aback that it really happened. Whilst I believe that we accommodate and grow around our experience of grief, the weight of this process amplifies over time; each new day is a gift, but it tallies to the count, taunting me by wedging more time between Mum and me.
But, although each new day pushes the simultaneous existence of Mum and me further apart, it also provides space for new experiences to form. Time, like a plume of volcanic ash, is unstoppable and corroding of everything in its path, but in its wake, it leaves fertile soil where new memories can flourish. The passing of time, neutral and objective, enacts these two very different things - it pushes things further from us, but also pulls in other things; it’s a bittersweet inevitability that you can’t have new moments if old moments don’t move further behind you. It’s easy to look back on the past and get upset, and this isn’t to propose that you shouldn’t be upset, but rather, to embrace and cherish those new moments. It’s not moving on from the past, but moving forward with the neverending flow of the present.
I wish I could’ve stayed by that sun-soaked table drinking elderflower cordial with Mum forever. But, if it weren’t for things moving forward, I wouldn’t have been able to go on a multi-day hike with my best friend last weekend, attend Glastonbury Festival alongside the old school gang, have sunset dinners in a newly-found park with my girlfriend and meet my brand new nephew, Felix - squirming, Michelin-Man chubby and emitting that New-Baby-Smell.
The inevitable and strenuous march of time means more and more things become, and move further into, our past, but it also carves the way for new experiences. Yes, I had to say goodbye to Mum, but I got to say hello to Felix. Old memories, once new and unfamiliar, only become cherished as time goes by. This message is about embracing change and not letting current moments pass you by. Be thankful for your memories and enjoy making new ones - they’ll be in the past soon, too.
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