Mothers never die (in 6 images)

Barcelona1 - Packages wrapped in gift paper. It's the first thing we saw when we walked into my mother's house for the first time after the accident. She'd started preparing Christmas presents, and there they were, as if nothing had happened. As Joan Didion says, "Life can change in an instant. In a normal instant." The emptiness was physical; I was missing limbs. Grief filled me. outsider In a happycracy where constant joy is expected of you. When you're looking for a job, when you go out with friends, or when you meet someone. At some point, I've traded studying or working for one: "Hi, I'm Carla, and my mother has died. And you? Will you tell me about your passing?"

2 - Tupperware in the fridge. That's how my friends saved me. For the sake of survival, we're not prepared to understand death or to cope with loss. We believe that if it hasn't happened to us, we can't understand it. We carry death within us; it's just that we don't want to look at it. Unsolicited advice: when in doubt, call, go, cook for them, wash their faces. Take care of people who are grieving and don't question the time grieving requires.

3 - A virtual Treasury assistant. I call to file my mother's statement (yes, the dead also file statements), and a robotic voice reminds me that she's DEAD. Not only should we talk about death, but we also need a manual for navigating the bureaucratic turmoil of banks, courts, and notaries, who aren't exactly known for their empathy. What options do we have with the funeral industry? How much are inheritance taxes? How do you manage an estate without crying on every call?

4 - A plaster bust of the mother. I was among her paintings and the endless curious objects that artists keep, and it conveys to me the grandeur of the Roman emperors. Mothers take up a lot of space. Many share the character of having had to make great sacrifices to raise their children and fortify themselves by hitting the glass ceiling with their hands tied. In my case, Curra didn't leave anyone indifferent. She won the world over, made you laugh until your face hurt, and was capable of anything she set her mind to. She was unstoppable. The bust reminds me that I can't call her to make big decisions, nor let her get close to me like I did when I was little. The bust reminds me that she's taught me how to do it alone, and that I am a bit of her too. We learn nothing from death—we abolish the magical thinking that says everything happens for a reason—but it's undeniable that it transforms us. Catastrophe makes us aware of impermanence, and we seem to grow claws to cling to the world.

5 - A dessert. Today we had dinner with what I call my (non)blood family. They are her friends, whom I have inherited. Through anecdotes, she is more present than many living people I know. Contrary to theories of mourning that advocate letting go of the dead, philosopher Vinciane Despret posits the idea that if we care for them, they have a "plus of existence." Because, as Bruno Latour asks, "In how many ways can a being exist?" It would be absurd to think that only material things exist, and even more so if it is a mother. It is undeniable that mothers can never truly die.

6 - 225 IU of Gonal. I leave dinner to get my fertility injection while, filled with gratitude, I think: What have we left behind? What could I leave behind? With an abortion in my bag, I wonder if that legacy can go beyond motherhood. I return to the table and find the answer: we continue to live on in the people we love so generously.