To be open to joy

This December holiday, I found myself standing on aisle 4 in Waitrose in York, heavy tears rolling down my cheeks.

When I first entered the supermarket, I gleefully darted around, looking at all the familiar offerings. I'd pick up an item and share the story around it with little C as she loves learning more about what we did with her when she was young. Like the candy eyes I bought to make cute birthday cookies for her classmates, but that made the bear cookies look more stunned/scary than happy.

Recalling that I posted about it, I dug into my Instagram account and pulled out the picture. We had a big laugh. Doing that deep dive, I inevitably chanced on a couple of photos that captured moments in time between my mum and I. Resting on a bench. Making gado gado.

And then it struck me that my mum used to adore visiting the Waitrose that was just around the corner from where we lived in the UK a decade ago. She loved exploring the local produce. Marvelling at the fish counter,

or how affordable the meats were.

How we could get the sweetest stone fruit and berries for merely a pound when they were in season. She was also taken by the vast a range of free range eggs they had, including from duck and goose.

Then there it was again. That familiar deep longing for her.

The sadness from knowing we would not be holidaying again. No soft hugs. No more bottles of lovingly fried anchovies to sprinkle on our noodles or porridge. That we didn't know our last holiday was our last. Would we have done anything differently? I was quite the mess but Ed and C now know not to be alarmed and how to respond.

Social media, with all the warnings around it, has served me well. It started out as a recipe archive but evolved into an archive of a mishmash of moments. It became an outlet of expression, an avenue to process my thoughts and reflections. I've enjoyed reliving bits of the past through old posts and sharing the pictures and anecdotes with little C.

Immediately after my mum's passing, there was sadness and there was guilt.

With every smile, every laughter, every random post about everyday life. I subsequently lost the desire to write.

Somehow, standing in aisle 4 at that Waitrose in York, the message I was getting was to be open to joy. To continue making memories. To continue writing.

And so here I am. Trying.