My Nan loved ornaments. My sister and I used to go to her house for dinner twice a week, and if we were good, she’d let us play with her ornaments. My sister always grabbed as many dog ornaments as she could; I loved the canons. My sister would gather her dogs together in front of the fireplace and I would invade and conquer, creating an army to rally against her and her canine companions. I always want to play war games, be the winning army. My sister just wanted the dogs.
Above the TV was a grand piano ornament which we were not allowed to touch. One evening, I carefully carried it to my mum, marvelling at the tiny painted keys. My Nan smiled as she gently lifted the lid of the piano, revealing it’s secret. The music was tinny but the song was beautiful. As I listened, I was both awed and sad; for whoever had written this music had experienced a deep sadness I had never known.
Memories are both precious and powerful. We spend so much time trying to store as many as we can, for as long as we can. We take endless photographs as a way of preserving events that have long passed, experiences we wish to relive and people we want to keep near.
I created this space so that I could encourage others who had friends whose family members were suffering with a terminal illness, trying to bring some good out of my family’s situation. The next few posts will mark the weeks following my mum’s passing. They will be filled with memories, moments I scrawled down so that they would not be forgotten. The posts will not always have a meaning or a purpose, no obvious encouragement. They will wreck blog etiquette by containing details that may be seemingly unimportant to those reading, but they are important to me. These weeks and months are important to me.
I want you to see and understand the chaos and confusion around my mum’s death. I wrote these next posts several weeks ago, but didn’t publish them as they didn’t fill the purpose and agenda of encouraging others. I wrote them for my own recollection, so that one day, when I can no longer remember the days around my mum’s passing, I can look back and imagine.
Imagine with me.