In the lead up to Mum's death there were moments I knew I'd never forget, even as they were happening. Mum had a beautiful oval mirror above the fireplace, and one day while helping her to her chair I glanced into the mirror and saw a bent old lady with thinning grey hair and stooped posture being helped by a broad shouldered giant of a woman, young looking but middle aged, her arm through the old ladies arm, supporting her tiny juddering steps before she folded (collapsed, sunk, fell) into the chair. The difference in us was a sharp slap to my face. As if the mirror showed the truth where my eyes could take the edge off the situation, my brain performing a trick to help me endure.
There was something about her dusky pink cardigan, bought last Christmas by my sister, hanging off her even then, that was tragic, its knit, colour, buttons just looking so sad. Mums back so curved and she appeared much shorter than her 5ft 4in frame. Mum, reaching for her chair, anxious to sit down looked worryingly frail, the effort of getting to and from her commode a few feet away a marathon. There was truth in our distance in the mirror, Mum in her final days, me at the midpoint (hopefully) of my life, I walk onwards, without her.
