things that break my heart - chair

Mum died at 5.45pm on the 2nd of May, 6 months today. I've decided to mark this first half year with a series of writings, collectively titled: Things That Break My Heart.

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.

resting place

Furmage Family Plot

This Sunday, my sister and I went to our Mum's grave. We added another bag of compost to the heavy clay soil, planted spring bulbs and perennials and edged the grave with white stones. It was a beautiful, cool, bright autumn day. Before this work I cleansed the space using burning sage, ridding the grave of any residual bad energies. We had a dreadful experience with a member of the cemetery staff before burying Mum's ashes, and sadly, this tainted our goodbye, so cleansing the site was very important.

With soil under our nails we traveled to St Paul's Cathedral, for the Bart's Health NHS Trust & St Joseph's Hospice Annual Service of Remembrance. This service is held in memory of all who have died in Bart's hospitals in the previous year. People of all faiths are welcome to attend and the service included readings, music and poems from a variety of religions. We were invited to write the name of our loved one on a card and this was taken to the altar in a symbolic gesture. It was moving to see the baskets of cards and consider our collective grief.

Attendees were given a beautiful long stemmed white rose to take home, it was heartwarming to see these roses carried tenderly down the cathedral steps, onto the streets, the buses and tubes. It was an unforgettable experience, shared with strangers who walk a brave path with their grief. 

Mum would have been thrilled by the idea of a service in her honour at St Paul's.

ashes

Yesterday would have been mum's 82nd birthday. Yesterday we buried her ashes in the family plot. Doreen Edna Logan joins her mother and two of her sisters on the East Road in Islington and St Pancras cemetery. 

Mum kept a photo of her mother by her bed until the end of her life, this photo was placed in her coffin before cremation. They are reunited. 

My mothers ashes in her petal urn

life drawing

Countless hours at collage were spent honing my observation and drawings skills, and now I rarely draw. This Tuesday I tootled up Leytonstone High Road and attended a class with East London Life Drawing. The assembled group were focused and companionable, and we lost two hours in the best possible way: in the moment, solving the problem of how to depict a living form on 2D paper. For me, it all came together when I got my hands on this red crayon, a blunt, early years type crayon with both beautiful and frustrating qualities.   

fairy

Mum loved brands. When clearing her home I took some comfort in gathering everyday items purchased by her: fabric softener, washing up liquid, soap, shampoo... and using them up in my flat. Mum's presence lingers a while longer in her favourite products, ones I wouldn't buy myself. Some items, particularly the fabric softener bring back the smell of her wardrobe, the sheets on the single beds in the front and back bedrooms. Just over three months have passed since she died and I've been using this Fairy Original, thinking of her as I squeeze green liquid into hot water. Almost used up, its time to buy another and to say goodbye to Fairy, I have not inherited my mothers loyalty to brands.

blue light

Photograph taken earlier in the day

Last week I took a few days off and became a tourist in my birth city. I'd never traveled the Thames by boat and this was the first thing I did, buying a day pass for the Thames Clipper. The day was beautiful, hot on the underground, cool on the river. London stretched out as a panoramic postcard and I enjoyed the scene from Westminster to Greenwich. It was fascinating viewing the city from the river, joining the dots on places I'd visited, familiar sights seen anew from a vantage point unchanged over centuries. Spotting the Prospect of Whitby in Wapping I made a mental note to visit in the future.

Towards the end of my trip the boat approached Tower Bridge and I noticed blue flashing lights above and wondered if a terrorist incident was unfolding. Earlier in the morning I'd disembarked at Westminster and observed the recently installed barriers around Westminster Bridge and was reminded of the terrible incident in March.

Crowds of people were pushed up against railings on one side of Tower Bridge. As we sailed under and beyond I looked back and saw a lone figure in a white t-shirt had climbed over the railings and was standing with their back to the river. The boat stopped at Tower of London and I kept my eyes on the figure, noticing police boats a safe distance below and a growing police presence on the bridge. My heart ached for the crisis that had led to this potential suicide attempt/cry for help. Around me tourists happily snapped away, unable to 'read' the city, blissfully unaware of the personal drama unfolding.

I couldn't take my eyes from the lone figure, small against the bulk of the bridge, they did not fall while in my line of vision. Disembarking from the boat I lost sight of them and found it so hard to walk away, as if I could keep them safe with my gaze. Knowing they were in capable hands helped, police and medics near who could support them, react.

On the cobblestones by Tower of London I quietly turned my body and palms towards the person in crisis, directing a prayer and wishing they felt the love and support around them and could find hope. It was all I could do. As I neared the station I heard an ambulance sirens wail, making its way towards bridge. I've wondered about them since.

high life

Last week I lived the high life! Taking a week off and ticking a few things off my London to-do list, then exploring Walton on the Naze, a place of childhood holidays with my sister, mum and aunt. 

 Canary Wharf

 The Shard and London Bridge

 London Eye

 Modern Wharf, Greenwich Peninsula

 Hampton Court Palace

 Cooking apple windfalls, Hampton Court Palace

 Hampton Court gardens

 Memorial, Walton on the Naze, Essex

 The Naze Tower in the distance

Harwich on the horizon