I'm getting to the good stuff

Preamble

I’m humbled by the response to my previous post about how I continue to live with the tragic loss of my mother, nine years ago. I’ve received numerous messages - empathetic, confessional, supportive - on various platforms and all I can say, with tightness in my throat and chest, is thank you.

My piece this week is a response to your responses, and to a show I attended on a Friday evening, where the luminous Tranna Wintour’s unguarded, poignant evocation of her high school experience and tribute to my mother pulled my heart out of my chest, gave me a chance to examine it with surprise, and then put it back, unclouded and beating freely for the first time in a long, long time.

The following has come forward a bit haphazardly as I cautiously step backwards into the past.

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If my mother were standing in front of me now, or maybe somewhere within earshot, here’s what I think I might be able to say…

You didn’t so much wear outfits as costumes and I had to keep your clothes when you left. They no longer smell of you but I don’t need the olfactory reminder. My memory in this instance hasn’t failed. When you wafted into a room, Chanel no. 5 came in with you smelling vixenish. Even in your most untamed iteration, though, you were warm and pliable as far as I was concerned.

I loved to watch you put on your makeup, and observe the quick amplification of your features. I loved it even more when your face was bare and your beauty less aloof.

You used to grade papers beside me, your forehead smooth with experience, and I would look on from my spot on our gold, tufted, velvet, ovoid lounger. You always looked sophisticated doing even the most mundane things, and had this untouchable quality for some. For me, you would make hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick as a stirrer and speak in intimate, comfortable tones.

Your laughter was spurred on by the absurd and bubbled over like a boiling pot sometimes, but had the tinkle of a glass bell. You conversely had a very Latin propensity to become incensed, and your wrath added to the drama that clung to you often, but which you could shake off when you wanted with calculated pragmatism.

You used to dance with me like a wild thing and when you led me I felt like a wild thing too.

We had many rituals. The small quiet ones have stayed with me, like sitting around peeling roasted chestnuts around the holidays and eating them slowly with a glass of milk. You were a skeptic, but we always had a crèche and an Advent wreath for Christmas, and when you would say a prayer, it was resonant with hope and resolve. The house always sparkled with refined ornamentation. There was of course that one time we almost got high painting pine cones with glittery nail polish.

I could tell you anything and knew with absolute certainty that you would listen with empathy and concern, or with intelligence and acuteness, or with benevolence and discernment, or with any combination of the above. Your mind was like a steel trap, but I always rambled without reserve.

You refused to let us have a pet when we were small, and so we had to keep smuggling the neighbours’ cats in, but once a stray turned up at your doorstep, you couldn’t turn her away. You then started contributing to animal rights charities and had more WWF stationary than you knew what to do with, and couldn't watch anything where an animal was in danger of getting harmed. You were, to some extent, the same way with people.

You were guarded and private, but those who sparked your interest found a fierce and generous ally.

Your clear, chiseled voice has left an inscription on my flesh. I’m beginning to read parts of myself with compassion, and with joy. I thought the traces were starting to disappear, but I can just about make out the meaning. Transcription is a long process, and the next step is illumination, but I’ll give myself over to the work devotedly for your sake and mine, and for the sake of my children.

My memory of the past is constructed like a leaning tower but I’m beginning to feel like I can handle the acute angle and redress the imbalance. I can almost feel your hand beside mine and if I can manage to get a solid hold, I don’t think I’ll let it go, this time.

Mommy (I’ve never managed to call you anything more sophisticated), I’m starting to get to the good stuff.

I’m starting to remember those evenings you read to my son with puppets you had borrowed from the library without feeling like my stomach has dropped out of my body.

I’m starting to remember how your home was a refuge for me, always, and how I’ll always have that roof over my head.

My two youngest were practically born in your bedroom and I can’t imagine that counts for nothing.

You weren’t a simple person, but your love for my children was as straight as an arrow. It stills juts out of my chest but the protrusion is a useful reminder and so I walk around with it, awkward and grateful.

You were a strange phenomenon, beautiful and rare, and I’m starting to think I was lucky to have watched you come and go, in your incandescent passion, with such breathtaking momentum. The deep silence you left in your wake is the colour of night with a smattering of tiny stars. They look promising, flickering across the velvet shroud, with an eye on the small, distant forms of those left below.

They give off a soft light, and it’s enough to see by.