My Mother

I feel like I have lost my deepest anchor, the person who in so many ways defined and steadied me. I wasn't prepared, I thought I was my own woman, that I was so different to her in my values and outlook, that her death would be painful but wouldn't challenge my existence. How wrong I was. How could I have been prepared? Now every scrap of her is precious; her photos, the things she kept in the drawer, her dressing gown that still has hankys in the pocket, birthday cards she kept that I'd sent her. All of these things feel like the only opportunity I now have to value her, to take my time and luxuriate in her in the way I wish I had when she was here, knowing as I do that as time goes on these small objects will become the all important triggers of her memory and so will become her, what she is now.

Now she's gone I realise that my mother taught me everything I know, not the fancy stuff, not my education or how to read a map - no, she taught me the important stuff - how to get tea on the table within thirty minutes of getting through the door, put a wash on, empty the bins and iron a shirt all at the same time. Most importantly she taught me how to love well. How to look after someone who's poorly, or take them a hot water bottle to make them feel cosy, or lay them a little tray with a boiled egg and a flower on, or to tuck them up in bed and kiss their forehead. She knew me better than anyone else is likely ever to know me, deeply, scarily, uncritically, I suppose unrealistically. And now there is no one to tell mine and the children's little triumphs to, knowing that she would be invariably chuffed and proud.