Category Archives: The language of families

I am on a new medication and it gives me a dry mouth. My solution is to keep a ziploc baggie of scotch mints in my purse. They sit next to the package of kleenex. Which makes me my mother. … Continue reading →

My mother was many things. It’s no lie to say that she hated me. She hated how I threatened her, how she could not control me, she lived in fear that I would eclipse her. But she loved me too. … Continue reading →

I see her around. Well, not really because she is dead, her ashes put in to the ground by my own hands. Except that I see her. In a well dressed woman of a certain age. A tone of voice. … Continue reading →

I drove out to the garden and paid my admission, walking to what they call the Iris Dell, and what I irreverently refer to as ‘the place we tipped your mortal remains into’. Iris Dell sounds nicer.   There’s a … Continue reading →

I went in the back door. In truth, while I know there is a front door, I don’t think I’ve ever been through the front door. I go to the back door. I don’t ring the door bell and I … Continue reading →

The day my mother died, well, the night before really, I was talking to her nurse. The nurse commented that she was so glad I had arrived in time and asked if I had a nice flight. Now, on the face … Continue reading →

I am thinking – rather seriously – about going back to get my Master’s Degree. This is what happens when you only work 50 hours a week. You take up training for a half marathon and you have time for … Continue reading →

The man my mother was seeing when she died asked me about my former step father. My mother never spoke of the former step father. The only time he came up was tangentially – when my mother refused to go … Continue reading →