My mother passed away almost two weeks ago. It was an embolism, which struck without warning, as embolisms do. No tearful goodbye on a death bed, no time to brace myself, Just a day earlier I had seen my mother via a skype conversation. She showed me the bandage from her recent foot surgery, and had a smile plastered on her face that I will remember as the dominant theme of her life: no matter what hardships she endured, what challenges she faced, she held herself with a dignity and a positivity that couldn’t help but inspire everyone she knew, whether they were lifelong friends or someone she had met during a chance encounter. She was my source of strength for so many years, and during a tragedy like this, she is the one I would have turned to for solace or a talk.

There’s a strange thing that happens when someone so close to you passes away. Vivid moments from the first week of her death flash in my mind like a strobe light, pounding away at me: getting the phone call and the shock and uncontrollable shaking that accompanied it. Selecting a coffin. Losing it over and over again. The viewing. The Funeral, which was beautiful, and yet played out with every cliché of weak legs and eyes blurred by tears that I thought were machinations of television and film. The tsunami of love and support from friends and relatives. Then, there are other things that I cannot remember, like her laugh. A laugh I heard so many times that I took it for granted. The Rabbi mentioned her laugh during the eulogy and countless people talked about it during the course of sitting shiva, and I can’t remember it.

I’ve never felt guiltier about something in my life than I do about forgetting my mother’s laugh.

People talk about the 5 stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression & Acceptance, as if they are a slow march towards healing that can be measured as you reach each specific feeling. While I’m sure the concept has validity, I have been experiencing all of these emotions at once, although perhaps the fact that I am overwhelmingly mired in a depression right now means there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. However, I still bargain, I still deny, and I still get angry.

In the end, we move on because we have to. You slowly move into line with the rest of the world, and although there is a hole in your heart, you live with the pain, and allow your mind to hold on to what was precious about your relationship so you can draw a vibrant picture for those who never had the pleasure of knowing her. And ultimately, you realize that when you continue with your life, in some bizarre way, you’re keeping her alive.

I love you mom.