I lost my Mum in a supermarket once,
I'll never do that again!

There I was, thrust into daily life,
so complacent that to see her
sometimes felt a chore.
I'll never do that again.

I had nightmares of her in pain
that seemed like they would never go away,
and they didn't,
nor do they still,
Relentless, again and again.

But I feel like such a twat.
Every time they say,
"So sorry for your loss,"
my brain just screams:
"Lost? Then why the hell was I grieving?
I should be checking all the bloody aisles for her!"
I'll never do that again.

I know "looking for her" would be foolish
— no aisle, no corner, would bring her to view.
My mother is dead;
her life's journey is through.
I'll never — and that really should be "I can't ever"
— but as every sleepless night and spiral of despair can attest,
I’m not,
and increasingly feel like I'll never be,
ready for that.

They say life must go on,
SO THEN WHY CAN'T SHE STILL BE HERE!?


...I don't like this “can't",
nor this anger that's lurking within.
So I take back my mocking,
as then I can stand some chance to get through today,
and for the record,
let's just keep to saying:

I lost my Mum in a supermarket once.
I'll never do that again.