Tag Archives: grief

Honesty⤴

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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
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
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.

Ducks and Fuchsias⤴

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I don’t believe in God, the afterlife, or supernatural forces. I do believe in coincidence, in seeing patterns in nature and finding meaning when you look for it.

Mum loved ducks – there are ducks throughout her house. Pictures of ducks, plastic ducks, wooden ducks. Every time I see a duck I think of mum.

Mum died on Thursday morning. On Friday afternoon, on the way back from saying goodbye, we stopped as usual at Tebay Service Station, bought coffee and cake and sat in the café to admire the view. As we sat and looked over the pond I thought of mum with more than one tear in my eye.

Ducks at Tebay

“Ducks at Tebay” flickr photo by NomadWarMachine  shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license.

Back at home on Saturday I shuffled the pages of my daily calendar to find the page for the day – and stopped with a smile. What a lovely picture for my weekend.

Ducks on a Riverbank

“Ducks on a Riverbank” flickr photo by NomadWarMachine shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license

And then yesterday morning, as I was pottering around the garden I noticed that we had a fuchsia in bloom – a present from mum soon after we moved into this house 12 years ago, and the first time I’ve seen it flower.

288 Fuchsia

“288 Fuchsia” flickr photo by NomadWarMachine  shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license

Lovely reminders of a mother who loved me, and who I loved.

Mum⤴

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“Take something to remind you of her”, they suggest.
“I already have”, I say.
In the cookbooks you gave me, the marks of my cooking throughout their pages,
In the jugs and vases dotted around the house, the result of many years happy scavenging together,
In the poetry books on my shelves, purloined from yours over the years,
In the pictures on my walls, presents from you to remind me of home.
I don’t need objects to remind me of you.
But everywhere I look I can see your love.

On death⤴

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She slips away gradually
Retreating from the trivia of everyday life
The daily paper resting, unread, upon her lap –
Sometimes she notices and is surprised to find it still unopened –
No more Suduko, no more politics
(This latter is a relief to her left-wing children!)
Her mind folds in: a moth without a flame
As her body tells her it is time to leave.

Happy Birthday, Dad⤴

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The death of a loved one is always hard. With time grief abates, it shrinks and becomes manageable – but it is still there. As time passes, I find that I have more memories of my father when he was in full health – a tune on the radio brings back memories of dad sitting in his favourite chair, singing and conducting to his beloved Mozart.

And then there are anniversaries. Today would have been dad’s 86th birthday, the first since his death. I listen to a Mozart Horn Concerto (the 3rd, always our favourite), remembering vividly the birthday when he bought me the record, and we sat together joyfully listening to it, nearly 50 years ago. I have tears in my eyes, but they are happy tears.

Happy birthday, old man. I miss you.