May. The mothering month, her birthday month; the time of year when she is in my thoughts more prominently than usual. I can almost sense her around me. For comfort, I am drawn back to the window seat to find cards, letters, notes: connections to her. And journals that chronicle the worst of the grief. I found this entry from only a couple of years ago:

“I thought I saw Mum on the tube this morning. I just glanced up and her face was turned slightly, but I could tell she was smiling. Her height was spot on, and her hair, but it was her hands that made my knees weaken slightly. She had Mum’s hands; long slim fingers, prominent veins interspersed with freckles (like mine), and her nails perfectly manicured. For a second I thought that if I touched her hand it would be cool and the skin would move across the tendons like satin… if I got up close I would be able to smell Red Door (her favourite); she would open her arms and say ‘my baby!’ She would crush me to her, and all of this horrific, mind numbing grief would be over. Though I know it will never really be over. I only remember how much I miss her when I see something of her again, and then it swamps me. She got off at Knightsbridge. Probably to buy shoes.”

I was lost over that time; when the shock of it all was so raw, and I take some comfort from knowing how far I have come. I think of her often. Some days the missing is harder to bare than others. Today, the sore throat and achyness I have been ignoring for most of the week is making its presence well and truly felt. I need to breathe deep, sip hot lemon, honey and ginger and sit in the quiet for a while.

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