Dear Mum,

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Some kind friends remembered you today, on this Australian Mother’s Day. It was a bittersweet day. The messages of love to me, as mother, were heartfelt and precious. And I wanted to share them with you.

Mum, I haven’t written for more than a year, but I think of you every day. Of course, some days more than others remind me how it feels like seconds and years all at once since we last shared words.

Inevitably, in recent weeks, as we faced anniversaries and birthdays, I have been thinking of you. As the mornings become a little fresher, but the ocean still feels warm; this is our time of year.

You should be wrapping presents, peeling mandarins and reading bedtime stories. You should be waking to the dawn chorus and going for long walks. Then, as the sun sets, you and Dad should be pulling on Uggs and a fleece and pretending not to fall asleep side by side, on my sofa.

We should be drinking a flat white or eating fish and chips with a glass of rosé. You should be walking on the beach and drawing pictures in the sand with the tip of you umbrella when the sun comes back out after a rain shower.

You should be on the ferry traveling to your beloved Manly, then walking to Shelly Beach and taking photos that would be almost identical to the ones you took each year for a decade and religiously pasted into an album.

 

 

You should be writing postcards to friends, playing Scrabble, swimming in the moonlit pool.

It wasn’t your time Mum. This is your time. You should be here.

From the routine to the significant, there are so many things, every day, that I wish I could share and so many questions only you could answer.

When Carter was counting down the days to his birthday and he shed tears as he went to bed on its eve, saying he wished he could have a present from you every year. Then he explained the gadget he is planning to invent when he grows up – a special monitor that would mean a car would never collide with a pedestrian.

When I hoover (infrequently), when Asha sings beautifully (all the time), when I go to the hairdressers (as often as you did); you are there with me.

When I read an amazing story Eland has written, or I am watching soccer, netball or dance, I want your eyes to see it too. As the kids change, but still stay the same; it’s you I want to marvel with. When I think about karma and wonder at what point a stubborn, contrary child might blossom into a determined, independent, achiever; it’s you I want to ask.

When I am advocating for the kids, stepping out of my comfort zone at work, or trying my best to be a good friend; you are my model and my guide. When well-meaning friends encourage me to remember the good times and don’t realise how sharp the pain remains; I know you would understand.

So, if you can hear Mum, know this: you are missed, you are loved, you are very much still with us. Every day.

 

Dear Mum,

Image ~ ~ Dear Mum ~ 3 Comments

With anniversary of mum’s death approaching, I couldn’t decide what to do. The emotions are still so raw, complex and unresolved. If in doubt, I always write. Today I wrote a letter to Mum. It will be the first of many, I think. There is still so much to say.

Dear Mum,

It has been a year, although it sometimes feels like yesterday.

In those early days I was lost for words. I know, I think that was unprecedented.

But how do you find the words? They all felt so inadequate and clichéd; my world had been torn apart, you had been stolen from us way before your time, we just had to take it one day at a time. Clichéd, yet true.

To be fair, no one else could find the words either. It was so hard to accept that this had happened. It is not the kind of thing that happens. Not in real life. Not to real people. Not to us.

Later on, words seemed a bit pointless; with the rest of the world carrying on, oblivious. It felt like if I had released my silent screams for everyone to ‘just stop for a minute’ there would have been a hollow silence, not even a hint of an echo. As you know, the world does not stop for any of us. It carries on. Sometimes that feels spiteful and at other times I am grateful for its relentlessness.

Dad and I had the luxury of choosing the last words we would say to each other. Snap. We both made the same choice. Through the sobs: “I love you. I’m so proud of you.”

But I can’t remember the last words we shared. Why would I? They were never going to be our last. We had years, maybe decades, left for more words shared. Until, suddenly, we had none.

Just between us, I do talk to you most days. Sometimes actual words, sometimes fantasies of the conversations we should be having. Often, I can imagine exactly what you would say. Sometimes, I simply crave that precious gift you and Dad gave us of unconditional love and undivided attention.

On the eve of the 365th day with no hope of hearing your voice, as I think of these words and type them, my chest tightens, my eyes sting and I physically ache for the chance to be with you again. Never before have I so badly wanted the thing I know can never be mine.

If there is a silver lining in all of this, I haven’t found it yet.

So, here I am writing a letter that you will never read, starting a conversation that will always have only one side. But it is all I have. I know it will help me and that you would be happy if there’s a possibility that it might also help others living in the shadow of grief and loss.

It’s hard to know where to start, but I should probably share a few words I have already had with myself.

We promised Dad we would remember him with a smile. I am trying. But I am getting stuck. It is harder than he ever could have imagined it would be.

I know your wish was always for a closer relationship with my siblings. That’s a work in progress.

I told myself, I would make an effort to stay connected to your many, many friends. I have failed. I have a beautiful letter from one friend that I promised to respond to. I am still too upset to open it and re-read it. I said I would send Christmas cards to all those people you never failed to send one to. I didn’t send any cards, to anyone.

Oh, and the dog that you (rightly) thought we were crazy to get – he’s been a real comfort, a sanity preserver and is the recipient of my deepest love and affection. He has a stubborn streak. He fits right in.

I will write again soon.

With all my love, always.

Zoë