When someone you love dies, you mostly miss them in small moments you would have shared with them.
Today, I realized why a driver who works here seems so familiar to me. He is the modern version of Wodehouse’s Gally Threepwood. He is, of course, not an English nobleman. But he is older, irreverent, full of off color jokes, loud clothing and mischievous cheer. He is known for being sober only when he is driving. He is Gally.
Mom would have loved knowing that. She introduced me Wodehouse’s fiction. We shared that love. It would have been fun to explain him to her when I got home from work, like I did so many times.
After the initial pain of loss subsides, its holes that are left by unshared moments that haunt you. Moments you know would have been there if the person still lived.