I dreamed about my mum last night. We were sat around the kitchen table – me, mum and my sister – and she had already died, but she was somehow back in our kitchen. Her death was like an elephant in the room… none of us wanted to refer to it or admit it was true. There were so many things unfinished; we didn’t want to admit that some would never be done.
But the main sense I had in the dream was one of love. Mum was there to take care of us, to look out for us. We didn’t mention her death because it would have been too painful for all of us, particularly her daughters.
Now, the next morning, I still have that deep feeling of love. Not spiritual or religious – nothing like that. Just profound love and appreciation for the little reminders of my mothers’ love I keep seeing all around.
The family photos dotted around the house. The wedding invitations that we worked on together. The vegetable lasagne that Mum’s friend brought round because she loved our mum – and by extension, loves us. Our faithful dog that’s been a part of our family for 14 years. The way I always feel a pang of guilt when I bite my nails or sniff (Mum hated that). Our ultra-modern Scandi Christmas tree that we still haven’t taken down because Mum loved it so much. The necklace I wear every day that was a gift from my parents’ last holiday together.
I could go on… I’m realising more and more that (cliche alert) the ones we love never truly leave us; they live on through the love they brought into our lives.