Last weekend I was at my father's for a while. It was my mum's birthday on 26th. On Sept. 1st it would have been their 56th Wedding anniversary. Well - it still is, will be. We did some gardening and I found this beautiful little jay feather.
I've read a few books by Hilary Mantel, all excellent, different, beautifully written, moving. This was in a July paper, but I only read it on the train last weekend:
The work of mourning is real work, like shovelling corpses, like sifting ashes for diamonds. When someone dies, we exist for years on a thin line, a wire, stretched tight between remembering and forgetting. When something touches that wire and makes it vibrate, that's a ghost. It's a disturbance in our consciousness, in that deep place where we carry the dead, like the unborn, sealed up inside us.
Jays always make me think of mum - she used to keep some jay feathers in her jewellery box, I loved looking at them when i was small - mum and dad found them on their honeymoon in Scotland, all those 56 years ago.
We sat for a while by mum's grave on Sunday, put in a plant and left some flowers and the jay feather.
This is one of the most persistent memories and images from our holiday, my dad:
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11 months ago