It has just been a few days past it being 6 months since my Mum died.
I now have two photos of her on my desk at work. One of her as a child and another of her as a smiling woman, at the brightest of her bloom.
Whenever someone stops to look at them, they remark on how beautiful she was. And she was. You have no idea how gorgeous she was. Any bloke would have been punching above his weight having her dangling off their arm, because she truly was. She was, after all, made up of two extremely good looking parents, so it was bound to happen. She was just something else. I know I am biased, but then, I cannot ignore the volume of people I have witnessed over the course of my life instantly remark on how good-looking my mother was. I used to feel a bit cheated as I was growing up, and indeed, now I’m older, that I am not a patch on her. I don’t have her stunning smile, dark good looks or long legs – I’m a little blonde dumpy thing really, in comparison.
That is just one facet of her that I have looked at over the past few months when I have looked at her and what she was – and now is – to me.
I feel like I have come to know her in a way I never thought I would, even in death.
I always knew that no matter what her opinion of me was, it was always going to be me that had some part in the clearing up of her life when the sun set on it.
My brother has been amazing though. I honestly don’t know what my sister and I would have done without him.
I have reflected a lot on my own feelings, but I haven’t really reflected on those around me who are also suffering. I don’t think it can be a selfish thing – I think you have to try and understand yourself before trying to understand others.
As I think I can understand myself a bit better now, I think I can understand him a bit better too.
We do not and cannot see eye to eye over our mother and that, sadly, will never change.
However, it will never stop me from loving him, caring about him or being extremely proud of him. How can I not be? He has served Queen and country, he works as a nurse. My brother saves and changes lives every single day of his working life.
I’m mighty proud of my little sister too. She has just turned 17 years old and is, at such a young age, trying to make sense of life and find a way forward with the enormity of the loss she has suffered. I will never cease to be amazed at her capacity to cope, to grow, to thrive and to be as beautiful as she is. I love her utterly.
The three of us have our own little dens of despair to go to, because we are human beings. As such, we grieve. There is no great revelation here.
I just wanted to acknowledge them. I just wanted to say that it isn’t just me getting all metaphysical and philosophical about the journey of humankind through the horror of life and death.
There are plenty of us piecing back together our versions of reality in the aftermath of the loss of my mother.
I take comfort in knowing that we are all in a place where we can now move on from and take forwards this new version of ourselves that we now ostensibly are.
And that she is now, finally, at peace.