The man my mother was dating, the man I call a sort of step father now, tells me that he uses the day he last spoke to you as a day of reflection.
You come to me differently. At the meat counter, when I see the pea meal bacon. In Nana Pearce’s shortbread.
You speak to me when I do not think that I can carry on and I still get out of bed. When I put my napkin on my lap, when I am kinder than I have to be. When I make lists of what has to be done. When I arrange the flowers at my former brother in law’s funeral. When I love with an open hand; when I struggle to understand that things are what they are. When I tell someone that if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
There was not much good about you, if I am honest. Especially at the end, you were a bitter and vile woman. You would have destroyed me if I gave you the choice. I chose this quite and peaceful life. I am not sure that another 40 years of it will be enough to make up for what you inflicted on me.
Save this. You come to me in a pot of split pea and ham soup. In the loaves of sourdough that are rising in my oven. And when I take the soup and the bread and some flowers to a friend who finds herself starting over in a new house. That’s what you would have done.
That was the best of you. That was the part that I remember. If it was never for me, it was for others and you showed me how.
I miss you mumsy. You left without a word 5 years ago. Messiah playing in the background, a clear blue and cold sky. You saw a door open and you walked through.
I hope there’s peace. I hope there are flowers and a garden. I hope there is pea meal bacon and fresh bread and beautiful music.
My mother was pretty irrational in her last couple years. She was dying of liver failure and her rising and falling ammonia levels had a profoundly awful effect on her rational thought processes. She hated me at the end.
I read this post about your mother and you, and in it, I found my mother and me. Thank you for this gift.