The night before

On this evening, four years ago, I was curled up in a ball on the sofa, dreading the next day. Physically frightened of it. The next day would be one year since Mum died. I was not ready for it to be a year. A year was a formal marker that horrified me (how can we have lived without her for a year), but it was also the beginning of something else. The start of the anniversaries. I was, not to put too fine a point on it, in a bad way.

We were watching Catherine Tate (how’s that for a baromoter of how long ago it was?). During a sketch about the foul mouthed old lady, Peter Kay appeared as an old man, reminiscing about his dead wife. He started to sing Bridge Over Troubled Water. When you’re weary, feeling small. This was one of three songs Mum had chosen to be played at her funeral. The first, Ripple by the Grateful Dead (bless her) had seen us in. The second, Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell was a strangely upbeat moment in an otherwise dreadful event. But Bridge Over Troubled Water? Well, I cried during that like I have never cried before. And wouldn’t cry like it again, until Peter Kay started to sing it the night before that anniversary.

I’m an atheist, and yet I imagine (because I have to) that Mum is somewhere, watching over us. Did she send Peter Kay that night to let us know she was there? No. Was she happy because I took comfort from it. Yes, why not?


25/08/2009. Uncategorized.


  1. Lee replied:

    Hugs xx

  2. John Self replied:

    Blokey shoulder punch.

    I’ve enjoyed reading your and your sis’s memories.

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