Wednesday, July 01, 2009


Sometimes, it’s a comfort having my mother’s things around me, to see her mahogany chest of drawers in the bedroom, her Austrian jug on the windowsill, her Piers Browne painting on the wall. Sometimes I hate to look at them.

Sometimes I like to see her photograph – her smiling, strong, straightforward face. Sometimes I can’t abide it on my desk. I never had her photo on display before she died, so if I have it here now, she must be dead. And I don’t want her dead. I don’t like the new dispensation.

I have to get used to losing her, having her missing from my life, gone, out of reach, unavailable for hugs or chats or encouragement, to live without that unfailing love that made the world feel safe.

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