It was Mum's funeral on Friday and, like everyone else's Mum, she was "the best Mum in the world".
They all are - and they all have the best kids in the world too - it's a fact of life!
The vicar was absolutely marvellous; everybody said so. He went to my sister's house on Wednesday evening and I sent him an email telling him about Mum's life and, between us, we gave him enough information to draw on to paint a canvas that left the mourners in no doubt of who the funeral was for (so many times you attend one and find yourself no wiser about the person concerned)
I'm at an age when I really can't wish any moment of my life away - but - boy does it hurt, this grieving business and, now when I'm not crying so much, every now and again I suddenly find this overwhelming, black dog of despair and sadness engulfing me; it kind of comes over me in short waves. I don't even have to be thinking of her when it happens.
My youngest son has just sent me the following:
I think it is really beautiful.
What is dying?
I am standing on the sea shore.
A ship sails and spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.
She is an object of beauty and I stand watching her until at last she fades on the horizon, and someone at my side says, "She is gone",
Gone where?
Gone from my sight, that is all;
She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her,
and just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination.
The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her,
and just at the moment when someone at my side says, "She is gone", there are others who are watching her coming,
and other voices take a glad shout "There she comes",
And that is dying.