It doesn't seem that many years ago, more like only three or four at most. And they say time heals and it does. But sometimes the memories come stealing back.
I remember that grim, silent, early morning ride down the twisting Durtlang road from the hospital. On the left, the high, looming rock walls, on the right the steep, perilous cliffs. The biting cold of a dark mid-November pre-dawn. In the open jeep, or was it a Gypsy, running less than twenty metres before us, I can still see the white shroud that covered your still, lifeless form. I remember silently wishing the ride would last forever. I didn't want to reach our home. I didn't want to see any mourners. I didn't want to have to deal with your death, your funeral. I only wanted that ride to go on and on and on, never going anywhere, never reaching anywhere.
M. today remembered your anniversary by visiting the orphanage again and taking them a bagful of the toiletries she'd coaxed them to admit they badly needed. Your sister accompanied her. She's getting old too, your sister, defeated by her own griefs and bereavements. We all still need you so much, Mum. And we all deal with your absence in our own ways.
But there's not a lot we can do when you're always a step ahead of us, always out of grasp, always out of reach.