Is it strange to measure loss through sprays of perfume?
Within a few days from my Mother’s recent death to now, the perfume in her bottle is decreasing with each spray I apply in my attempt to keep her close. So, perversely, also with each spray I lose her and that measure of time will actually be met with emptiness.
Mummy was meant to be at Parchment House this coming Summer. I was looking forward to making up her ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’ bed that reminded her of being a child. For her it wasn’t just the layers of comfy bedding but also with the door cracked ajar, she could hear me breathing in the next room and in turn rest peacefully.
I’ve been working through all the papers from her house, so many papers, my goodness the number of letters and photographs and cards and love notes and lists and documents and drawings and all the stories of life that fill each day, month, decade, generation, it goes on and on.
And that’s what we do isn’t it, we keep on. It is in the knowing there will be another snow, more mice, friends to and fro, dinners and sunny days that we endure, survive, thrive, and just simply be.
As I look at this photograph of Mummy standing strong in the cubes I come around to thinking I actually just need to keep buying the same perfume and in breathing in that scent I will actually exhale her spirit. She is why I am. And for that I keep on.