So one day it’s Monday and the next it is Tuesday and there was not one day between the two but a whole eight. Yes my Darlings, somewhere along the way I lost an entire week and I am very definitely not complaining because it has been all kinds of lovely, not least because my house is full of lavender coloured tulips and it feels so very good to be writing properly again.
I love May. It is one of my favourite months because it is just so Springy and hopeful and happy and it begins and ends with a Bank holiday which always brings family and fun flooding to my door.
This week there has been lemon scented laundry strung across the garden. A spectacularly late (and oh so lovely) Friday evening. Red wine. A barbecue. Malted milk chocolate. An afternoon with Clarry that ended with him drinking from the dog’s bowl and an assurance from my sister that I am not fit to look after a two-year old. Meatballs made by said sister. To. Die. For. A few early nights with one after the other of the Cotswold Mystery series (I love a good cosy, I do). Hair washed in baking soda to try to rid myself of the scary red tinge I am currently sporting. A few muddy walks in the woods. An hour or two spent watching one of the oddest films I have ever seen. And half an hour amusing myself guessing the flavours of a box of Jelly Belly jelly beans (Thank-you Jelly Bean giver).
On Sunday we wandered around the cemetery where we will be burying my Mum’s ashes. The boys sat on a bench and Clarry ran in and out of the gravestones while we stood around and debated the unthinkable. And I said I did not care where she was buried for I could not imagine finding comfort in a stone with her name on. And everyone else said that they would and I came away feeling isolated: on the outskirts of something presumably good and proper. I worried that it was too close to a car park. To a supermarket. In a town I cannot be sure she particularly liked. I worried that we would leave flowers to rot on the stone like so many people did, or worse that someone would lay something awful and plastic on it and that my Mum would flutter in aesthetic horror. It didn’t feel good enough. Nice enough. Not a lovely enough place in which to bury someone so very precious. And I felt sad and resigned to it.
Then today I went to the supermarket. I bought cheese and bread and milk and as I was loading the car, I looked over to the church and suddenly understood. If she was buried there she could still be a part of our everyday. We could wander down each week from the centre of our little town with an armful of flowers and sit and watch the ducks in the pond at the end of the cemetery. We could look after her for always.
Sometimes it takes me a little while to understand.