Memories

Mum would have been 86 today. She's been dead for 14 years. It seems just the other day that we were at her bedside for those final moments as she breathed her last. I shared a profound anniversary of someone's death this weekend and felt the pain of those who lost their dad just a year ago. Words, poetry and music all helped to carve out a memory and paint a fresh canvass of sorrow. It was a measure of progress for that family, a hurdle which when clambered over at least brought a step forward.
The idea that grief is a process was a step forward too in understanding how people muddle along that path. Attempts to make the process linear and neat were useful in the sense that people could try to see where they were along the track, but of course deceptive as it's neither neat nor linear. A heart torn by loss remains wounded and dismembered really.
Jean Palmer was a brave woman. Her aristocratic mother was probably too dominant in the worst possible Victorian sense. Her father died when she was very young, thus depriving her of that special anchor. Her husband, my father Ernie, was only with her through fourteen years of marriage when she was robbed of her man by his inevitable death. And as a widow she did a pretty impressive job raising my sister and I through the tumultuous teens and the pains of our school years.
She took no nonsense from us, and always told us not to cross the proverbial bridge before we got there. She believed in us when we didn't, and managed to navigate us through a fairly simple and frugal course which was grounded in a secure and welcoming home. When mother arrived, we were always forewarned by that raspy cough. Her humour was infectious, and our friends enjoyed her cheerful disposition. She would yell for us on the sideline (not that I had too many of those) and support our activities and organizations with zeal. She was prolific in her catering, producing all manner of goodies for various events, and a bit to liberal with the salt pot.
Over many years of living away from her because my work and vocation took me to other cities, a morning phone call to her would always be an inspiration and give warmth and courage. She would quip at times that it was just as well the phone didn't have a camera if we called too early. She never did get the chance to skype us. But she wrote long and newsy letters, and kept us up to date with all kinds of clippings from the local papers.
At the end of her life the poster that I found with signatures of her buddies at the back summed it up quite succinctly. φίλος πιστὸς σκέπη κραταιά, ὁ δὲ εὑρὼν αὐτὸν εὗρεν θησαυρόν. From Sirach 6:14 it reads: A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter: whoever finds one has found a treasure.
Such wisdom indeed from the sage. What a treasure she was.I mourn her still, and give thanks for her life and all she invested in her children and grandchildren.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.