04/03/2026
Last week marked my mom’s 20th death anniversary. I suppose it should feel big. But in truth, it was the 17th anniversary that I dreaded: The year that would mark more time spent without her than with her. It was strange. It was sad. But it was also the same time that my grief began to shift—that the scales started tipping back into balance. As I’ve stepped deeper into death and grief work, I’ve deepened the waters of our bond. I think many of us fear that our dead will drift further and further away with each passing year, but when we claim responsibility for those relationships, we stay anchored. The years pass below us, above us, around us, but not between us. I’ve been writing a series called Rituals for Remembering on my Substack (see link below), so I thought I’d share a few of the rituals I used to connect with her last week:
🍓Eating strawberry Pocky. My mom lived in Japan for a short time, and one of the many gifts she shared with us from her time there was a love for this sweet treat.
🐾Wearing her sweatshirt. Unfortunately I don’t have a photo of her in the sweatshirt I kept, but it has the same manic cat energy as the one pictured. It literally brings me closer to her, reminds me of solidness, her softness, and the comfort of being near her.
💌Reading her letters from college. I love running my hands over these letters, feeling the texture of the paper and ink, studying her tiny handwriting. Her sing-song, mischievous voice comes back to me when I read her words.
🌳Going on a walk with her. I love this simple visualization trick! I get to imagine the world with her still in it: how she might admire the budding trees, how she might move at 74, how she might stop to chat with a neighbor and pet their dog.
I miss her, of course. In a way that now feels like a birthmark or scar. Her life breathes into mine, and her death does too.
https://cecilyrobertson.substack.com