Yeah, I have no idea if anyone still reads this thing, but what the hell.
Today was a strange day. I drove Mum up to Brighton to see my Aunt Edith and cousin Robin (who came up with his wife Kris). For those of you who don't know, my Uncle Adrian (who died last week) was Edith's husband and my aunt Jeanne (who died a few weeks ago) is Edith's sister and Robin's mother. My mother and Edith are first cousins, but growing up Edith and Adrian were the only relatives I had living in Canada outside my immediate family.
While it was good to see them all again, this last month has not been at all good from a family perspective. We're all hoping that three deaths in the family is all there's going to be. But even this much represents a major closing in a part of my life. With my grandmother and Jeanne gone, the odds of my ever visiting Southport in England seem pretty slim. I also find myself thinking about mortality more, which I suppose is inevitable. Which feels especially weird with this little rambunctious child rampaging around the house every day, full of life. Right now I'm thinking about endings when hers is just beginning.
I'm trying to make sense of where I wanted to go with this and I think I know what the problem is. I want to write something melancholy because I'm feeling down right now, and I think I'm justified in feeling that way--but I also know objectively that I shouldn't. How do you feel sorry for yourself when you know there are lots of people out there who would be incredibly grateful to have the opportunities and the life I have? OK, it's doable, no question, but sympathy is not expected. That's not what this is. I think it's more a sense that I can't go home again. In the last few years, my life has changed irrevocably and I'm still figuring out what the new one looks like.