14 December 2009
We buried Mum in a green-burial meadow which, once sown with trees, will one day become a forest. They let us choose which species was planted on her grave. Dad chose a hazel because nightingales nest in them and the nuts will attract squirrels.
So, her work complete and legend secure, Mum’s departed into memory and myth, leaving the family to find its way without her. Dad holds the fort, Ruth tussles with two demanding small people, and I enter my third and final winter of writing.
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