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.