This is a column to say thank you. So many of have been in touch since Mum died to say so many kind and thoughtful things. You’re wonderful, all of you.
You’ve asked how we’re doing, how Dad’s doing.
A little more realisation each day, of the irretrievable finality of it. Never again. Not ever.
But also there is the happy surprise of her being there in your consciousness, in your instinct. This is what she might say. This is what she might suggest. It feels lasting, it feels close.
Steve, the rural minister who took her service, had mentioned to the congregation the previous Sunday that he was leaving in April for an overseas trip. She went to him afterwards, with a look of smiling concern. This was no good, she told him; he was the one she wanted to take her funeral service. What if she went while he was away?
It felt to him like banter; but maybe she was feeling it more keenly than we knew.
In any case, he was perfect. She would have been so glad.
We had talked, already, along similar but less grim lines: being in London at the end of April meant we'd miss her 90th birthday.
I had said we could be with her on FaceTime, the way we had on Christmas morning.
That morning, she had read out to Mary-Margaret the card she couldn't give her in person. This was a new idea for Christmas presents she'd taken up in recent years. She’d pick out a photo from the grandchild’s childhood, and write them a thoughtful message about the photo and where life had taken them since.
We have the card and photo in our luggage. It's a lovely card, and it will probably make her granddaughter cry the same way she did, listening in London on Christmas Eve to her Gran reading it to her from the other side of the world.
On the day that would have been her 90th, we'll go to Evensong at St. Paul's. She’d have loved that.
And Dad?
Things are going okay.
It feels as though there is a gradual process by which he becomes a bit more aware that she's gone.
It’s a tough way to grieve.
But the home he’s in — the one we’re so grateful to for being so caring, so attentive, so thorough — they are being wonderful, involving him, ensuring he has company, enriching his days so he's not feeling the aloneness.
He told Emma who runs the home, She’s sleeping now.
Sometimes he says, We were lucky to have her.
