For the first time in years, today the anniversary of my mother’s death hasn’t sent me into a deep depression. Oh sure I’ve cried a bit, but I’m not so angry anymore. Plus I’ve stopped trying to think about what could have been, and what is. I’ve also stopped trying to think of people to blame for her premature death – she was just 42 years old. Now I think more about the good times, the early years. As such, perhaps I’m finally at the acceptance stage of my grief. It’s taken me 12 years.