To my darling Mum,
Where to begin? One whole year has passed since I got to talk to you last. A whole year since you told me to “stop being annoying” whilst I clambered all over your bed, and a whole year since we had naughty lines of chocolate together. A year since you plaited my hair for the last time, and since you last watched an episode of Holby City. It feels like yesterday that you laughed at me because I was training for a half marathon, yet here I am a year later, having not heeded any of your warnings about arthritis in my knees, training for another half marathon, but this time in your name.
You are beautiful. Easter 2013.
And, in only one year, it seems as though everything has changed. I am not the same person you left standing at your bedside. Our family are not the same wild things they always were (Dad learned to cook – and rather well, too!). But you will always remain the same. Forever you will be wonderful. Not one breath of time can corrupt the darling memories of you in our hearts, and that is truly fabulous.
You and Dad in Innsbruck.
When you left, everybody told me how sorry they were for losing you. But, they are wrong! I don’t recall ever having lost you last year – not like that time I lost you in Homebase when I was six and hid in the cement section crying, waiting for you to come and find me. No, we didn’t lose you; we couldn’t mislay something so precious as you.
Reppin’ the 1998 cool
And how could you possibly be lost when I see you so clearly about me in everything I do? What those people don’t know is that the reason I don’t wear makeup is because you told me it was pointless. And that the perfume I wear religiously every day smells of you. You are there when I wake up and eat weetabix, and when I climb into bed at night with a good book. It is because of you that I have such a profound respect of diamonds, and that I wear sunscreen every day for fear of damaging the good skin genetics which you gave me. I treasure the fact that you taught me that it is okay for women to drink pints of beer, and how to always get what you want in the end, without stamping your foot. Even my dissertation oozes your personality – Greek Mythology and poetry – you introduced me to that world of wonder first.
I want to thank you Muma bear on this anniversary of me seeing you last, for always being a shining light in a very confusing world. Thank you for your excellent taste in music so that I may have a soundtrack to see me through the very many uphills of life. Thank you for not caring about fashion so that I could see past the superficiality of our contemporary world. Thank you for being so naturally beautiful so that I may always be content in my own skin. Thank you for the painstaking cooking lessons and onion chopping masterclasses (I will never be able to recreate your olive bread). Thank you for your never ending kindness and good humour so that I can remember in my brattish strops what I should really be doing. Thank you for putting every human on this planet before yourself and protecting us with your love.
Even though you are not here with me, every day you continue to teach me something new; I am only sorry that I didn’t listen to you sooner because life would have been a lot easier. You will be glad to know that I now understand your love of torrential summer rain. Feeling warm raindrops splash against your face and neck and arms and clothes and legs, and not caring about how wet you are getting, is great. Even better is that I have also discovered your food-shopping-whilst-the-world-cup-is-on trick – AMAZING! You are a genius! And you are right, England are pants at football anyway – there’s no need to watch it.
My only request in this coming year is that you never stop teaching me new things. You were right about everything (annoying as it is to admit), and your advice would go down a treat when we don’t know how to work the boiler in our new house, or when I’ve broken six consecutive needles in your sewing machine in under half an hour, or when I’m poorly sick and need some magic medicines only Mums know the recipe to.
But, most of all, thank you for telling my stroppy ten year old self, who was annoyed with her siblings and wanted to go to boarding school, that although you couldn’t pick your family, you should cherish them with all you possess, for one day you will need them more than the air that you breathe. You couldn’t have predicted a truer future.
You are the best things
I miss you.
Good genes run in the family.
Seeing in 2013 together.