Small Towels. What My Mother's Illness and Death Taught Me

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Small Towels. What My Mother's Illness and Death Taught Me
Illustration by Przemysław Gawlas & Michał Kęskiewicz

Her faith was probably a bit like smoking: she'd have just one cigarette in the evening, standing under the awning and savoring that moment of relaxation before sleep — which I'm not sure ever actually came.

By Bartosz Sadulski


Two things leave me no peace and never will: tinnitus and grief after my mother's death. Both are hard to get used to. Probably because, as Joan Didion wrote: "Grief, when it comes, is nothing like we expect it to be." I don't know what I expected, but I desperately didn't want to go through it.

Recurring grief after a mother's death

This year will mark fourteen years since her death — soon I'll be able to watch Czterdziestolatek ("The Forty-Year-Old") and say it's a film about me. The unprocessed grief still returns in waves. I started writing this piece in January, quite suddenly in the middle of the night, because I realized what I'd been doing: every time before I leave the house, I nervously peer through the kitchen window, hiding behind a large leaf of a monstera plant perched precariously on the fridge, to check whether my neighbor is smoking a cigarette.