Today is her birthday. Even though she is dead

The expectation and anticlimax of significant grief days.

It’s February 7th. Mum should be 62 today, but she will always be 61.

I'm not sure what to do with today. It's another day without her, a day that technically hurts no more or no less than the days that have preceded it. But there is a pressure. The air is heavy with it. With expectation. Something is supposed to happen today. I'm supposed to do something. But what? Cake and candles? I am supposed to be... sadder. But I’m supposed to celebrate. More crying, more cake. I don’t know.

I'm not sure what to do with today.

I think about what I would have done if she were alive. I would have called her and sang to her – badly, loudly, not caring about people hearing me on my commute. I would have sent her a card with a long message inside. I would have told her how much I love her, how lucky I am to have her as a mum. I want to say I would have gone to Manchester to see her, but I probably wouldn't have. If I'm honest, I likely would have waited for a weekend that was more convenient for me. I would have taken her out for dinner or to the theatre, but it would have been belated.

I wouldn't have thought it mattered much. It wasn’t a big birthday. I would see her soon. And you don't think it's the last birthday. You never think it's the last birthday.

The buildup to these days can be worse than the day itself. It is the pressure to perform some version of grief that feels appropriately heavy. It creates an anxiety that you won't live up to the moment, that you won't do it 'right'.

Often, these significant days – the anniversaries, the birthdays, Christmas – are not the dramatic, wailing affairs we might expect. For me, these days tend to be marked by a notable stillness – an empty quiet that hollows me out. Today, her birthday, is not the day that will destroy me, leave me doubled over in agony. No, that will happen on a random Tuesday in an unimportant week of an unimportant month – triggered only by the horrific normality of her day-to-day absence.

What will I do with today?

My sister and I will do something together. Something nice. We will do it for her, for us, for the people who keep asking us what we are doing today.

We will open a bottle of wine, even though we keep telling each other we are going to drink less.

But it's Friday.

But it has been a long week.

But our mother is dead.

So we will drink the wine and force ourselves to talk about her, even though her name lacerates our skin. Even though the memories rip us open at the seams.

A song will play in the bar. The song we almost chose for the funeral but didn’t. We will listen for her voice in the lyrics. We will make it through today. And she will still be 61 tomorrow.