It’s been five days since Mum passed away. It feels like an age and also like it’s just happened. I keep replaying her last moments in my mind. Even though I was there beside her, there’s part of me that’s in denial about her really being gone.

These past few days, between the endless admin that accompanies death, I’ve been mulling over our relationship. I know it’s stating the obvious, but I’ve known her for almost 55 years – my 54 years plus the time I spent with her one on one in her womb. I can’t remember what she said to me in those early months when she first felt me kick, but my Mum was a talker so I can only imagine that she shared a whole range of topics with me – stuff about my Dad, her garden, probably some crafty project she was working on and her excited expectations for me to follow in her creative footsteps. Maybe she ranted about the politics of the day, or told me about what bargains she’d found at the market, the healing soup she was going to cook or relayed the entire plot of the latest romance novel she was reading. Whatever, my young heart absorbed it all and it helped to shape me into the person I am today. 

The photo above captures a season 20 years ago when we were going through significant challenges in our relationship. We were both filled with a strong sense of justice and could stand our ground in an argument, unwilling to back down. What we had to learn together was how to submit. How to say sorry. How to be wrong, and not be floored by it. I watched my Mum soften over the years, and took notes. I went from resisting her to wanting to be like her. 

With Mum leaving, I feel like I’ve lost my greatest advocate and biggest fan. She was so incredibly proud of me. (Only 6 weeks ago, she was applauding me and screaming with delight when I showed her a bag I’d made). She understood my quirkiness and mirrored it. She was always up for an experiment or new project. She was a feeder and we would talk endlessly about our future fitness goals, while eating cake and drinking wine. She loved telling stories and a couple of my plays are down to gossip sessions we had over ackee and saltfish. In recent times, I learnt to sit quietly with her. There were moments when she struggled to express herself, but I could still understand her. I like to think we had our own sign language, a rhythm we had cultivated over several decades. Like my time in utero, her words, her heartbeat, her love, surrounded me still and told me everything I needed to know.

I will miss her face but I see her when I look in the mirror. And of course, I will see her again. What a day that will be.