The every-day hum drum of life is OK. It’s the quiet times that get to me. The times when grief is close to the surface of my heart, and erupts in a harsh sob, that I can’t even tell the people closest to me about. It’s almost two years since Mom died, and I am reminded daily of her influence in my life. My love for family, animals, sport and gardening, colour and beauty, and fairness and justice for all.
I was prompted to write this prose: Time passing.
It was hot that July. The day we brought Mom back from the hospital.
“There’s nothing more we can do” they said.
Nurses rallied round, arranging things. A view of the garden would help, they said.
And so we waited.
Time passing. Going nowhere.
Until Mom’s final journey.