It seemed strange to me. So strange, that a whole life could be packed up into plastic bags. It seemed so foreign to everything I had learnt up until now in my life. “Your life is what you make it.”
I had learnt to trust in a lot of things that just don’t exist anymore. My mum used to say “topsy turvy” when I was a child and things were strange.
I imagined what would be left of me if it had been me who passed away; a box of books, and plastic bags of shoes. I imagined it too would be a bit topsy turvy.
We took my Mums clothes to charity, and it still seems strange that my gut doesn’t run cold with the thought of someone else wearing my Mum’s clothes.
I assumed the hardest thing would be when Mum physically passed away, but I think a lot of the pain comes in the deaths you realise afterwards: the last time she wore a raincoat, a jumper or the last time she picked up a book to read. It messed with my head when I saw all the books she had bought, hoping to read. Pages which would forever remain stuck together and untouched in my Mum’s life.
You think “When was the last time we hugged?” as in a proper hug, where she was strong enough to stand and hold you and not the other way around. And you count the days since you last had a walk in the garden or the last time she was out in the rain.
It’s another goodbye; she won’t wear those brown boots anymore. We won’t receive a cuddle in her coat. I can’t expect most people to understand.
It all seems so final, yet still, this isn’t the hardest thing.
We will all move away in our ears we hear her saying “this is your time, girls.” It isn’t so difficult to say goodbye to my home. I can make home anywhere, with anyone. Home is in me.
And here we are, with a whole life in plastic bags. And that’s the most painful thing; that one person’s life is summed up in plastic bags and goodbyes. Vibrant colours, memories and laughter wrapped up in slick, black plastic.
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