The experiment begins.

My mom died from breast cancer on January 22nd, 1996. She was 48. I was 21.

That January was the scariest month of my life.

Every year, when January rolls around, the cells in my body seem to put me into grief auto-pilot. They say cells have memory. I believe it is true. On some cellular level, I go into grief mode. Wether I am thinking about it or not. Sometimes I see it off in the distance, heading my way. Sometimes I turn around and there is, smacking me in the face.

I may have made this up or heard it wrong, but when I was in grad school for art therapy I heard a professor say that trauma has to do with a lack of witness. This stuck with me for whatever reason, real or imagined idea as it was. I have thought about January in this context. The January. I was not alone physically, but in many ways I was. I was alone in my mind and in my experience. My relationship with my mother was not like anyone else's. And there was not a lot of processing of what was happening while it was happening. It sort of left me with a lot of memories and moments that never got shared. Like pebbles in my shoe (my mom would say) they are always there. They are painful.

I am hoping by sharing them, they will be less so. If I hand you a pebble at a time. Will you hold it for me? It may help to be able to write down my memories as they come this month and share them with you. I have not found a way to commemorate January or my mother's passing. In the very least, this will be something to do. It will be an experiment.

Please feel free to add your own memories if you have some. Some of you were there. Some of you heard about it from afar. Most of you never met my mom. She was the love of my life.