‘ I wasn’t meant to be here’ she said on her last birthday. But you were. And you were.
A month later she was gone. Looking older than her years cancer had withered her away. In the last days she still had the ritual of smoking memorised in some form of mime, imagining the cigarette motion to her lips but inhaling on only air. Of course, at the hospice no smoking allowed. In death all the wrinkles and wear of life faded to a smooth pale alabaster, her bird-like broken nose she’d never really liked was such an intrinsic part of her, hair curling soft and astonishingly still mainly black with only a smattering of grey. Peaceful.
I loved you Mum. I wished you had been around longer. Happy Birthday by the way. I carried it with me all day. I carry you in my build, my walk and talk – it’s so damned annoying! I see it in my own grown up children and their expressions, both frowns and laughter. Something you left is still right here.
joel mills 