Remembering You

It had been years since I’d last set foot on the salt flats near my home. The landscape hadn’t changed any – the reeds still blew in the wind, the petrol station was still running … even the pub was still there. It was like time in the village had frozen the day she died, never to properly start again. Everywhere I looked, I saw her smile, heard her laughter, even caught a glimpse of her figure as I walked down what was once the main road. They’d built the ring-road almost twenty years ago, but I still remembered the days when you took your life in your hands just trying to get to the petrol station safely.

She’d always been bubbly, my mum, full of life and joy no matter what happened. In 34 years I’d only ever seen her cry three times, every single one of those times at a funeral. Most days she was cracking jokes, making seemingly endless cups of tea, and telling me stories about the kids in the neighbourhood. I never knew who she was talking about, but it made her happy to talk about it.

The wind started to rise, stirring my hair as I looked out over the bay. It was late autumn, the leaves turning to their vibrant shades of red, orange, and gold. Mornings had started to become crisp, and Damon had spotted the first frost on the ground yesterday. Winter was coming; fires burning in the grate, talk of the holiday season, plans for office parties and what to wear. It all meant nothing to me. My holiday season would be a lot bleaker now that I wouldn’t hear her voice saying “Merry Christmas, darling.”

It’s not about people, Jessica. It’s about the spirit of Christmas.

Her voice gently admonished me as I smiled ruefully, knowing she’d want me to go and enjoy myself. How was it possible to enjoy myself when the woman who made Christmas the festive day that it was had died? Santa couldn’t bring her back, and I wouldn’t find her laying in the manger alongside the baby Jesus. It didn’t seem fair, and I felt the familiar rise of anger in my throat.

I’d been at work when they told me, showing my latest collection of photos. It had been aptly titled Memories, and featured some of my favourite photos over the years, including one that I’d taken on an ancient smartphone back in 2012. I’d been much skinnier then, much greener, and hadn’t experienced any of the hell that was going to shape my life. My mother, as always, had looked eternally youthful and slightly surprised that I was taking a photo with her. She’d never liked photos, my mum – something she’d firmly passed on to me. I much preferred being the other side of the lens, capturing beauty wherever I found it.

A lone bird swooped over the bay, calling plaintively for its mate. A few moments later, its mate joined it, and the pair swooped and darted overhead, putting on a flight display that I could only envy.

Should have brought the camera, I thought, laughing to myself. I’m never prepared for these moments.

The birds soared away, and my gaze returned to the waters of Pegwell Bay. I’d grown up around the area, spending my summers at the beach and my winters on the nature reserve. After my mum’s type 2 diabetes diagnosis, she’d taken to walking around our village every day without fail. When I was older, I went with her, and together we put the world to rights. No topic was off limits; we debated the legacy of Margaret Thatcher, climate change, politics, education reform … it was probably the closest I ever felt to my mother. After I moved away, she still did her walks around the village, probably talking to herself, or dragging my dad along with her. By the time I graduated, she was literally half the woman I’d grown up with, and her diabetes was all but gone. I never told her, but it made me extremely proud, and I always admired her discipline. It’s something I’ve tried to emulate throughout my life.

Tears sprang to my eyes as I remembered my wedding day in 2022. My parents had been so excited, and my mum had gone and bought a hat specially. My dad had bought ribbon for his Jaguar, and proudly told half the world that his little girl was finally getting married (emphasis on the finally). He’d done a reading, too, 1 Corinthians 13. Love is patient, love is kind … he’d choked up on a few of the words, but he’d managed it. And it was a slightly smug moment for me because my dad was about as religious as a rock. He believed in God, sure, but you’d never get him in church unless he absolutely had to go.

My mum had been absolutely beaming with pride, although I’m sure most of that was the fact that she was holding my baby daughter. Amy was born in 2018, just four short months before my wedding day, and she’d looked gorgeous. My mum, being the doting grandmother that she was, had cuddled her little granddaughter that whole service, waving her tiny hands and giving her a bottle whenever she so much as yawned.

It’s not fair, the sudden thought stabbed my brain. You should be here for more birthdays, more Christmases, more everything! Why did this have to happen?

Tears sprang to my eyes as I glared out over the water like it had personally offended me. My mum had still been sprightly, still full of life, still alive, when dementia had slowly set its claws into her. It started with her forgetting my name, then my children’s names, until finally she forgot who my father was. I’ll never forget the day that happened – I watched his heart shatter into a thousand pieces even as he held her hands and told her who he was. Almost fifty years of marriage, gone in the blink of an eye.

By the time anyone realised how serious things were, she’d started wandering. Every time, my father would jump in his car and drive around the neighbourhood looking for her, usually finding her at the local park chatting to the teenagers who hung out there smoking. Most of the time they were lovely to her, but there were a few boys we had to … warn off, as it were. My mum, bless her, just told them that she was looking for the library so she could return her books. The books, of course, never existed.

“Oh, Mum,” I sighed, letting the tears finally roll down my cheeks. “It’s not bloody fair, is it?”

None of it was fair. Not the disease that had stolen her mind, not the inevitable march of age that had slowed her footsteps until she could no longer walk, none of it. It was all ridiculously unfair.

The tears kept coming, and I felt a scream building inside me. I hadn’t been able to cry when she was dying, or even at the funeral. I’d looked ghastly, though, a horrific shade of white with red-rimmed eyes that were almost psychotic with repressed grief. My father, however, had been my main concern. He’d watched the love of his life fade into nothing before her body finally said ‘enough’. Endured heartbreak after heartbreak as she asked him daily, and then hourly, who he was and why he was in her mother’s house. Sat on his bed and stared into space as he realised that he would be alone for the first time in half a century, and I’d watched his heart break over and over again. Nothing I could say would comfort him because it wasn’t the same. A daughter would never be the same as a wife.

He’d fallen apart after the funeral, my dad, the weight of it all catching up with him until he could no longer carry it. For two weeks, he’d lain on his bed, hunched into a ball, silently sobbing. I’d hear him at night, whispering her name over and over again as if whispers alone could turn back time.

Amelia, Amelia, Amelia …

Every night I wanted to walk in and scoop him up in my arms, but not only was he too tall for me to do that, it would have taken what little pride he had left. All I could do was fall to my knees and pray to God that He would spare my father. Selfishly, I didn’t think I could bear losing two parents in such a short space of time. For my father, I’m sure death seemed like a welcome relief – a chance to be reunited with my mum.

“Why did this have to happen?” I whispered, the tears choking me as I fought back a scream of grief. “Why, God? Why did you have to take my mum? Why couldn’t You have let her stay just a little while longer?”

I couldn’t hold the scream back any longer, and I took a deep breath before letting all my grief out in one unholy howl. The force of it sent me to my knees, tears pouring over my cheeks and my mouth open as far as it would go. Birds scattered from the nearby trees, startled by the noise, but I didn’t care. My mum was gone, my father destroyed, and none of it seemed in any way fair.

“WHY?” I keened over and over again, barely able to breathe. “Why couldn’t you have stayed, Mum? Why did you have to leave me here? I can’t do this on my own, Mum! Dad needs you – I need you! Why can’t you just come back?”

I bent forwards over my knees until my head touched the icy concrete path, tears now flowing up towards my hairline and snot blocking my nostrils. I fumbled a tissue from my pocket and blew my nose, slowly pulling myself upright as I stared angrily out at the waves that were starting to form as the wind grew stronger.

“Why did you have to die, Mum?” I half whispered, half screamed. “It’s not fucking fair. None of it’s fair.”

I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and looked up, startled. My father stood next to me, his face gaunt from weeks of not eating much, but still with the same gentle smile I remembered. He helped me to my feet and pulled me into his arms, still as strong as an ox despite the weight loss. I buried my face in his chest, the familiar warmth of his coat bringing me a tiny modicum of calm.

“It’s not fair, Dad,” I murmured, and I felt him swallow hard as he too tried not to cry.

“No, it isn’t.” he answered, his voice thick with emotion. “None of it’s bloody fair.”

“She should be here for Christmas.”

“She should be here for all of it.”

“But she isn’t. And she never will be. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to go on without her. How I’m supposed to help you, how I’m meant to be a good daughter, a good mum, a good wife, when I’m barely a person right now. It’s like I exist in a vacuum.”

My dad held me a little while longer, and then gently stepped back. Even though he looked as fragile as glass, I could see the steel returning to his eyes with every passing moment. He gently took my hand and tucked it into his arm before turning for home, our steps naturally falling into synch as we walked.

“I had the honour of knowing your mum for over fifty years,” he began, blinking back tears. “And yes, she was taken far too soon. The way I look at it, though, is I had most of my life with her. I raised a wonderful daughter with her. I had grandchildren with her, and I got to share some amazing moments with her. Our wedding day, your wedding day, your children’s lives … I got to experience that with the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. That, Jessica, is a gift in itself.”

“Don’t you wish she’d stayed longer, though?”

“Of course I do. The time I had with her would never have been enough, and I’ll always wish I could have had one more day. The fact is, I can’t. And I can either lose myself in grief or I can try and live the life she’d have wanted for me. And that’s all any of us can do.”

“You’re right,” I smiled through my tears. “It’s just hard to think we’ve got to have the rest of our lives without her.”

“It will be for a while,” he nodded. “I think it took about six years before I was able to talk about my mum without crying. Grief takes time. The trick is to let it run its course without fighting it. Scream if you need to, shout at God if you need to, just don’t let it fester inside you. You can even ring me if you want, I don’t mind. Although that might be pointless soon.”

“Don’t tell me you’re dying too,” I groaned. “That’s all I need.”

“I’m not dying yet,” he laughed. “I made a decision when I was lying in bed for those two weeks, and I’ve finally got everything in place so I can tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, Damon helped me to find a little place in Spain,” he started, ignoring my gasp. “It’s near you and the children, in the local town, so I’ll be ten minutes away by car. I don’t speak a word of Spanish, so you’ll have to help me a lot, but I think your mum would have wanted me to do it.”

“Mum would have gone ballistic,” I chuckled. “She was never one for living abroad. Do you remember when I first moved? She’d ask me every other week when I was coming back.”

“Ah, she just worried about you.”

“I know.”

We stopped opposite the house, and I pulled out my phone. “Better take a photo before I forget, eh?”

“Probably a good idea. I’ve got a buyer for most of the china, and the rest is coming to the new house with me. Damon helped me pack it up – my eyes aren’t what they were.”

“When was your last eye test, Dad?” I groaned. “I bet it was years ago.”

“Erm …. possibly.” he laughed guiltily, and I laughed too, the fond exasperation making me both laugh and cry.

“You’re hopeless, Dad.”

“I know.”

I looked at him, the man I’d admired my entire life, and felt a whole new wave of respect for him wash over me. He’d lost the woman of his dreams, the love of his life, and he was somehow still standing. Lesser men would have collapsed in a heap on the floor and never risen again. Instead, he’d taken his grief and turned it into something beautiful.

“Come on, then,” he tugged my arm, and we crossed the road. “Let’s get the kettle on, eh? Tell me about Amy’s latest achievements. Damon says she’s learned to tie her own shoelaces!”

We walked through the front door, and I turned to look out over the bay one last time. As I did, I saw my mum’s face in a cloud, smiling down on me the way she’d always done, and a slight hope stirred in my heart.

This too shall pass. It might pass like a kidney stone, but it will pass.