This Mother's Day I will remember. I will remember a lot of things.
My own mother who died just over two years ago. RIP.
My husband’s mother who is in hospital in Spain, very poorly, with my husband by her side, her only child, and the place he should be at this moment.
I’ll remember also that I’m a mother. But without their father, my teenage children might forget. That’s all right. They don’t yet have to remember. If they go about their day, doing their thing, it’s okay. They don’t have to remember. Not yet. There’s time. We have time.
George, a friend of ours, he died this week. He has no time left. I don’t know how old he was but he was somewhere between my husband and I, somewhere between forty six and fifty five. He was a good age but not a good enough age to die. He was a bright man, a sparky man. He was intelligent in the same way my husband is, both of them unique in a way most people aren’t. George had seen things many men hadn’t and he was tortured in a way that left a permanent legacy.
We didn’t see him often. Sometimes five times a week, sometimes five times a month, sometimes none at all. He was a character, generous and quirky and flawed. He was a bit mad, too. But he was somebody that I liked, somebody I wanted to spend time with, somebody who made his mark. I didn’t know him well. I didn’t have to. I knew his worth. He was A GOOD MAN.
And for all of you out there with your mothers, or remembering your mothers, or wishing you didn’t have to, have a good weekend.