On the Eve of Mother's Day

I write this as dusk begins to gently creep in, on the eve of Mother’s Day, and my thoughts turn to my mother as they often do at dusk.  I’ve noted elsewhere that my mother, towards the end of her life, would sometimes say to me “after I’m gone if you want to think of me, think of me at dusk”. This evening I think of many things; of how the roles we played, she and I, gradually shifted over the years, and of how we grew closer as time moved forward.

 I remember my teenage years and the squabbles we had that seemed so important at the time and now can be seen as just part of growing up.  I remember when I first started work and was earning a small pay taking responsibility for buying my own clothes, and one day coming home and finding a brand new chenille dressing gown laid out on my sister’s bed and one on my bed too. At the time my sister was at Uni and Mum was on a very tight budget. I took for granted that Mum needed to buy my sister clothes but I felt I was responsible for myself. Mum passed it off lightly when I asked her about it but it felt like such an amazing  gift.

Years later when my children were growing up I understood a little more about such things.  The children’s clothes were always bought before mine and it took me a couple of years when they were independent and working before I stopped looking for and buying things for them.

After I had children Mum and I grew closer.  I understood her more and we shared so much. I have lovely precious memories of watching my tiny mother – she was only 5 foot tall,-  holding my babies, gazing into their little eyes and talking to them in a sweet loving voice, and feeling that love enveloping me as well.    

I would save the funny stories of things the kids did to tell her about. This sharing of everyday things some funny some sad, some a bit of a worry, continued through the years.  After she died I found there was such an empty space in my life.  I realized all these everyday things I saved up to talk with her about, I shared with her and no-one else, and now I had no-one to share them with.

Eventually as she grew old I was able to do for her all the things she used to do for me. It came to be that what I experienced from her was truly unconditional love.  She seemed to look at me through rose coloured glasses.  She saw no fault, made no criticisms, and I felt not just loved but truly liked as well. That was such a gift and gave me confidence in myself through sometimes difficult times.

My mother loved violets.  She grew them in her garden, the old fashioned sweet smelling ones.  Always a little corner or two for her violets.  In the years since she died, every now and then when I am sitting alone, I get the faint smell of violets for a few moments and I find myself saying “ Hello Mum, I miss you, … thanks”