Well, here we are. Another milestone. Another reason my heart is hurting.
Happy Birthday Mum, the first birthday where you're not here to cut your cake.
You've come to me in my sleep every night this week and its been a comfort to hear your words and see your face, animated and full of life. Happy, laughing, talking.
But they're just dreams.
Sitting in our old childhood dining room, the table beautifully dressed in a white lace tablecloth and filled with cakes and cups of tea. I'd brought a Tiramasu (obviously not home made, possibly a David Jones purchase) and couldn't find a space on the table for it.
You were there, smiling and entertaining us. When I woke, I wanted to be back there again with you but no matter how much I willed myself to go back to sleep, it didn't happen.
A lady sat staring at me on the bus this week; opposite me her gaze was compassionate and sad. Unnerved, I touched my face and met with wetness. Behind my massive Prada sunnies, I was crying and I had no idea that for possibly ten minutes, while music was blasting through my headphones, I had been crying alone along the journey to work.
So I got off the bus.
It hits me often and mostly I can fake it, cover the deep sadness that I'm now motherless but this week has been difficult. Mid sentence I lose my train of thought. It takes me an hour to read a paragraph. I found myself wandering for nearly two hours after work looking for the perfect birthday card for you.
I found the card. I came home. Alone, sad, grieving. And wishing again for just one more day.
Happy Birthday Mum. Thank you for teaching me the power of independence and thank you for coming to see me in my sleep.
I hope you visit often,
L xxx
Happy Birthday Mum, the first birthday where you're not here to cut your cake.
You've come to me in my sleep every night this week and its been a comfort to hear your words and see your face, animated and full of life. Happy, laughing, talking.
But they're just dreams.
Sitting in our old childhood dining room, the table beautifully dressed in a white lace tablecloth and filled with cakes and cups of tea. I'd brought a Tiramasu (obviously not home made, possibly a David Jones purchase) and couldn't find a space on the table for it.
You were there, smiling and entertaining us. When I woke, I wanted to be back there again with you but no matter how much I willed myself to go back to sleep, it didn't happen.
A lady sat staring at me on the bus this week; opposite me her gaze was compassionate and sad. Unnerved, I touched my face and met with wetness. Behind my massive Prada sunnies, I was crying and I had no idea that for possibly ten minutes, while music was blasting through my headphones, I had been crying alone along the journey to work.
So I got off the bus.
It hits me often and mostly I can fake it, cover the deep sadness that I'm now motherless but this week has been difficult. Mid sentence I lose my train of thought. It takes me an hour to read a paragraph. I found myself wandering for nearly two hours after work looking for the perfect birthday card for you.
I found the card. I came home. Alone, sad, grieving. And wishing again for just one more day.
Happy Birthday Mum. Thank you for teaching me the power of independence and thank you for coming to see me in my sleep.
I hope you visit often,
L xxx
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