Poor Mum. I thought of her a lot on Wednesday, and was sad, but tears did not come as expected. I suppose a year is sufficient time for grief to dissipate, but I did want to cry. Instead I got on with a visit to Welling and then an evening with my cousin R---. No doubt it was best; what good would brooding at home have done?
The only image I can see of her is the deathbed one - as captured in my poem Under The Sheet in the posting on 11 February 2009 called My Mum Is Dead. Clearly the sight of her so soon after death, laid out as if asleep, but with her final expression still on her face, affected me deeply. I just can't seem to recall her as she was in life. I can look at my photos, but I haven't got a recording of her voice - nor Dad for that matter - and she seems forever fixed in her dying state. I hope that changes.
The last verse of the poem goes as follows:
The unbeliever knelt and prayed,
And found some loving words to say.
I wished you in Heaven, and said it through tears,
But they couldn't repair the guilt of years.
I wanted to tell you and explain,
I wanted to tell you my real name.
And speak of this, and this, and this,
But all I could do at the very end
Was to give your cheek the softest kiss.
Perhaps I have a mental block because there was so much I wanted to say to Mum before she died, but she wouldn't hear me; and then all too soon she was unable to hear me. We did not have a proper farewell.