Doreen Edna Logan (née Furmage)
The evening of the day Mum died I lit a candle and let it burn down in the darkness of my bedroom. I set it in front of a photo taken on her 70th birthday in 2005, me to her right, my sister to her left: the same positions as at the moment of her death. The candle illuminated her photo, so if I woke in the night she was smiling out at me. I'm very grateful that Mum died with 'her girls' present. My memory is muddled but Clare's voice is clear, simply stating 'it's happening!' as we simultaneously leaned in close to stroke her face and hair and say, 'goodbye Mum, goodbye' as she died. Her colour change was dramatic, in the instance her heart stopped beating she was yellow, the effect of liver failure shockingly apparent - poor thing.
Each night before I sleep, I say out loud, 'night Mum', and in her voice answer, 'night dear'. I'm trying to retain her voice, as my Dad's is long forgotten. It is important that I do this for a year, the last night lighting will be on the 1st May 2018. I'll buy a special candle to burn on the 2nd May, lightening it at 5.45pm, the time of her death. I mentioned my ritual to a friend who's husband is from Ghana. His father died last year and she told me the first year of bereavement is honoured in his culture, marked by family gatherings and a celebration and remembering of the loved ones life. This first year feels sacred. My first year with no father, no mother.
