Your dark brown hair is still in your brush.
Your socks are rolled up in a ball, stuffed in the top of one of your tiny pink running shoes, ready for a gym session.
Your book; “Book Of Joy” by The Dalai Lama is neatly placed at your side of the bed, bookmarked on page 123 with 228 pages to be read.
Your toothbrush is still in its holder above the sink.
But. You’re not here. You never will be. Ever.
Evie asked me yesterday; “Will I see Mummy for Christmas?” I’m not sure if she still doesn’t get it, if she doesn’t accept it or if she just dreams that one day I will say; “sure Puffin, you will see mummy for Christmas, she can’t wait to see you.” I get choked up when she asks about your whereabouts and when you’re coming home. The lump in my throat will never go away in that conversation. It’s in my throat now just thinking about it, like a small dry ball of bread lodged in the oesophagus.
Evie talks about you the most of anyone. She talks about you every single day.
I dropped her off at school this morning as little red riding hood for book week. She definitely inherited all your beauty and flare.
I told her she is encouraged by her teacher Emily to take a book to school, so no prizes guessing what book she packed in her Hello Kitty backpack along with three additional outfits for the day. Yep; “My Mumma.”
Noah came up to me while I was hanging clothes on the line last week and grabbed me around the leg like an orphaned koala, wanting to be picked up and rescued. He just started balling with big wet tears squirting from his eyes, “I want my mummy daddy.” He cried, we cried, cuddling for 40 minutes on the sofa, wishing you were here. It was good for us because we haven’t done that in a while. I’m not sure what set him off but it was much-needed therapy for the both of us.
July was a tough month for me. None are easy but for some reason, it just ticked over with a little more discomfort. The last couple of weeks have been much better. Hopefully August is an easier month in handling your absence.
You were very missed last week at my dad’s 70th birthday weekend in the mountains. Well, you are very missed at every event. You’re missed every week, every day, every minute.
Anyways, I just wanted to say hi and that I miss you. We all do.
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2 Replies to ““My Mumma””
That was a heart breaking read