7 things my mother taught me

I’ve been thinking about my Mum again, perhaps because Mother’s Day was last Sunday in Ireland and the UK, but there were other reasons too: sad news about other people’s parents and friends, and the screening of a new version of the Cornish historical drama Poldark, that I couldn’t bring myself to watch, because I watched the original series with my Mum in the long ago 1970s. She sadly died before this blog was born, though we’d been losing her one memory at a time for a number of years, and while the grief was knife-sharp at first, it has faded over time to a dull ache. But now and again something happens that makes it flare up and catch me unawares.

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Where are you now?

As the door on 2014 softly closes, I think of you once more.  It’s three years since you passed away, yet I still remember you every day.  I hear your voice in my head.  I ask you questions.  I miss so much: that feeling of safety and security that only a parent can give, your advice, your help, your presence.

But now you’re gone to some place where I cannot find you.  There is no grave for me to visit or lay flowers.  Your ashes were scattered from the summit of a Scottish mountain, according to your wishes.  So all that was left of you was borne away by the breeze to who knows where.

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