I am back from deepest, darkest rural NZ where the lamingtons are tasty, the sheep plentiful and the early winter landscape eerily beautiful. We said goodbye in a very measured way with terrible renditions of 'The Lord is My Shepherd' and 'Abide with Me', but a lovely eulogy by a daughter. I simply cannot fathom no longer having my Mum. I think I can imagine the shape of it, but I cannot plumb the depths. Mum, still so fresh in her grief and the unfairness of it all four years later, said it best just before we left the wake:
every day there is something I want to tell her
Anyway, I am back in Auckland where it is warm-ish and rainy. While no one will hand me a cup of tea in bed as a wake-up call tomorrow (that is my mother's particular language of love, which also translates to 'get the hell out of bed and start the day with me') it will be nice to be back in my home, surrounded by my books and my kitchen implements and my bathroom products. I wore her perfume and knee high stockings yesterday and we both wore black pants, cut off at the ankle and I admired her grey cardigan and I thought we are the same, after all. She is me and I am her. Even as we are not.
I forgot to wish her a happy mother's day as I slid out of the car at the airport today. Why do I still cry every time I leave them?