Life’s Little Embers

I once heard a quote, “a person does not truly die until the last person who knew them, to speak their name, also dies.”  I find much beauty and poignancy in such an observation. It is one that gives context and comfort during those periods when context and comfort are not in abundance. It is within this context that I write a small piece on 3rd May, each year, for my parents. During the final years of their lives, I took regular photographs of my parents so I could share them with their grandchildren, great-grandchild and wider family. Stored securely on a memory stick on this day I take that memory stick out, select a photograph and write a little something. Initially on closed social media platforms like FaceBook and more lately on open media like this from last year. This photograph was taken a couple of weeks before Mum’s health deteriorated rapidly over a very short period of time.

They had a routine, which generally consisted of them living separate lives during the day with occasional chats as one of them would make a pot of tea or meal. Dad, in the front room with his latest model building project. Mum, in the back room, reading and watching the latest soap. Pet dog seeking attention from either one of them. Each evening they would share their meal, cuddle up, natter and watch TV.

In my final year with them, I got the opportunity to hug them, share stories, tell them how much I loved them, explain to them how proud I am to be their son. As a family, to express in their later years that it was an honour to care for them. This became the foundation for coming to terms with not having them physically in our lives. It’s the small stories that become important. My dad asking for, “gingersnap biscuits to be put in his pocket when we put him in his box.” My mum reminding us, “make sure your dad gets his meals” during last days she was able to communicate. The search for my mum false teeth after she passed away and then to find her gnashers many months afterwards in the back of my car without any rational reason why they should have been there. I’m also happy to report that nothing gives me more satisfaction than hearing their grandchildren and great-grandchildren share these small anecdotes.

The Last Flower

Somethings have explanations, some things take belief, while others just leave you pondering for a rational reason for them to exist. They capture a moment, like stars when they align. On this damp, chilly September morning in the corner of my kitchen, a corner where the plants do their best to thrive, of all these days, a blooming flower stretches out seeking the sky. It’s the last flower, my father planted before he died on the 3rd March 2017, which is exactly, to the day, 12 months after my mum had passed away. The significance of this solitary flower that blooms on this damp, chilly September morning is what causes the pause, as I make a breakfast tea and say happy birthday to my mum.

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