I’ve been thinking about mum a lot this weekend  – maybe because it was Mothering Sunday yesterday – although as my mother’s daughter I know better than to call it Mother’s Day and be confused about what the day was meant to be about. I might not be religious, but thanks to my pedantic parents I will never confuse a religious festival with a Hallmark Holiday. However, I realised over the weekend that I don’t know what church I was baptised in, because we moved a few times before I was old enough to know where I lived. And now, of course, it’s too late to find out because I can’t ask mum any more, even if I wanted to.

But as I was pottering around the garden, and thinking how much it needs tidied up now spring is finally here, I noticed that the honesty was starting to flower.

Honesty flickr photo by NomadWarMachine shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license

My granny, her mum, always had honesty growing in her garden, and the plants in my garden are grown from plants that were once in her flower beds, then in mum’s. I love them – both for reminding me of my mum, and my granny, and because when the two shades are together they make up the colours of the Suffragettes.

Honesty flickr photo by NomadWarMachine shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license

As time passes, and I start to remember the parts of mum I loved rather than the dotty old lady she turned into, sometimes I think I miss her more, and not less. I’m not feeling maudlin though, as I write this, just noticing the many tones of love that grief has.