Uta
My mother died nine days ago.
It happened both slowly and quickly.
The quickly. She died in her sleep aged 88, in Fiji, where she spent her winters, as she loved the sun and the warmth.
The slowly. I don’t think she ever got to know me and I am certain I never got to know her. Ours was a very, very, long journey of grief and loss. Even her cremains are 3500 km from me.
The rest. She and my father were in a marriage that burned too hot for such a young couple to sustain or control. It could only be extinguished. Prior to no-fault divorce legislation in 1975, this procedure needed a HAZMAT- equipped fire brigade on standby. Theirs was no different.
My brother and I were cared for by our paternal grandmother and our father. Our mother could take us for a day four times per year. The important times for maternal bonding were deemed Birthdays (mine & his), Easter and Christmas.
I wish there was more that could be said. However, Uta was deliberately cryptic and distant. I bear a resemblance to her that people comment upon. As does my beauteous and smart grrlchild.
I am finally and strangely connected to her in a Schrödinger’s cat thought experiment kind of way. As we wait, here in Australia, for the death certificate, she is neither dead nor alive. I hoped it could have been different.
My mother has died.
I wished I could have known her so much better, and she could have loved me so much more.
