Sometimes when I get up really early in the morning, I look around my kitchen and dining area, quiet before the start of the day, and allow myself to imagine my mum here. She used to pop up from Brisbane once or twice a year, generally for Christmas or some other occasion, for a visit. She was a fairly early riser, generally out of bed by about 6 am, and I'm usually not much later than that. We'd sit together in the mornings, have a coffee and chat while we watched the sun rising. It was my favourite part of her visits. That time in the mornings that we had all to ourselves before my kids or the Caveman got up and joined us.It's been just over 18 months since we lost Mum and her birthday was just a few days ago. She would have loved the fact that she was turning 69 this year - with all the innuendo! She had a dirty sense of humour, which I often rolled my eyes at, but she would have run with that joke for ages.
Sometimes I miss her dreadfully. I could talk to her about anything - she really was my best friend and my sounding board. I mean, obviously my husband is too, but with Mum I could discuss issues that he either wasn't interested in, or was too close to be objective about. She didn't always have the answers, but then I didn't expect her to.
I miss being able to tell her all the little things that are going on in our lives; sharing milestones and celebrations with her - our eldest son's great season at cricket (one of her favourite sports) and being named Rookie of the Year for his new team. Our daughter's achievements in studying for the career she wants. Just seeing them become responsible and mature young adults would have brought her so much joy. Our youngest boy starting high school and passing my height at the tender age of 11. I am officially the shortest member of the family now! She would have laughed at that.
I reassure myself that she's watching and is aware of all these things anyway, but nothing comes close to actually being able to talk to her and hear her voice. I find myself feeling sorry for people who didn't get to meet her, and I remember feeling that way after my husband's father passed away too. No matter how well you try to describe someone, you feel like you can't capture them enough for the other person to really 'get' who they were. My father-in-law would have been 89 today - his birthday was only three days after my Mum's. He's been gone for nine years, but it still feels like it hasn't been that long. A lot has happened in that time though. When he passed, we were struggling with the Caveman being unable to work and me being at home full-time as well, trying to raise three children aged 10 and under - with hardly any income. To see how far we've come, with our qualifications and jobs, as well as how the kids have grown and what they've each achieved, would have made him so proud.
We also very recently lost a man who the Caveman considered to be his best friend. He had been ill for a while, so we knew it was coming, but it was still very upsetting to the whole family when he passed. It may seem like we've had a lot of sadness in recent years, and it's true that each person has left a hole that can't be filled by anyone else. However, when I think of the people we've lost, the memories that dominate are their humour and ability to see the funny or optimistic side of just about anything.
They're good memories to have - and a lovely way to remember anyone who is no longer with us.
