No, I do not dwell on the negative. Normally.
I also don’t only remember bad things.
I remember how I slept in her bed after my father’s death.
I remember how she let my baby bunny ride in her lap.
I remember that she never, ever praised me about my good grades.
I remember crying in the growth of poplars about the praise of some dear family members, with nothing coming from her.
I remember her always, always being worried about me. (In those days that just meant worried that I may fall pregnant.)
I remember not being able to talk to her about falling in love. Or about falling out of love.
I remember for some time believing she did not love me.
I remember growing up and realizing the utter stupidity of such a belief.
I remember her encouraging me to burn all my old love letters and diaries before my marriage. (To my eternal regret I did just that.)
I remember her always being ready to come and help out with any kind of crisis.
I remember her being brilliant with not only my kids, but with all her grandchildren.
I remember her baking homemade bread and biscuits every time she came to visit.
I remember her teaching my sons to make her special deep-fried treats (in Afrikaans called poffertjies) when she was too weak to do it herself.
I remember her making arrangements to come to me when her time was running out.
I remember how she taught me a knitting pattern two days before her death (And yes, I have forgotten how to do it.)
I remember her confidently looking up to me with those big brown eyes when I had to help her in the shower.
I remember holding her hand through the last, long and dark night.
Yes, and I remember missing her. Terribly.