Belated Mother’s Day

She believed you’d go crazy if the full moon glowed on you all night.

She insisted we left our bedroom window open a handswidth, so we wouldn’t suffocate in our sleep.

She believed in good deportment, correct pronunciation, deep breathing by the sea, and the medicinal qualities of being out in fresh air.

My children laughed about the grandma’s ‘Moon Madness’, and cold noses on mid-winter mornings.

But she used to call me ‘little one’.

I miss that.

I know I’m late. Spent last Sunday being introspective. Thinking about the Mum I lost five years ago, in the first COVID lockdown. A weird time, when friends wouldn’t stand close; when no one knew if they’d get it and die, or if the plague itself would die out. A morose time when only nine people came to Mum’s funeral.

I used to think of her every day. Now it’s once a week. Plus, special occasions. Grief eases after a bit, even for the most significant and influential woman you ever have. It’s okay now.

Last Sunday, I asked myself if I measured up next to her, as a mum.

Well, no. Not exactly.

My Mum ironed the sheets before putting them on our beds. Beds that were turned down before entry, before endless kissing and tucking in rituals…