A man stands in a room, at a desk, and thinks about his mother, who has just died. The desk is crowded with her papers. This is her apartment and he’s come to put her things in order. Seeing the clutter he thinks: “She could never throw anything away… My mother… My mother… My mother was my mother… My mother was my mother, and my father was my father…”
I understand this. He means: The woman who was my mother was my mother. Or: Of all the women in the world, that particular woman was my mother. Just as that particular man was my father.
This is how I feel about J. J was my J.