Today's walk along the road was an altogether very different one - peaceful, still and sad. We had been in preparation and expectation of my mothers death for the past few years. The person we knew was long gone, wrapped in a fog of confusion and circular conversations ... frail and vulnerable ... different but still a presence. The one and only Christmas card I still send; this year is reduced to none.
We spent time together on Saturday, looking at old photographs and for about 30 minutes the conversation flowed, the stories remembered, the familiar connection made, the need to say goodbye - not said; but instinctively communicated and heard ... the hardest of goodbyes.
The finality of death must be the most painful to accept, no second chance, no opportunity to go back, final.
No Facebook or TikTok page has ever featured and no grave stone will stand to document a life, but in the presence of her family yesterday, I sat and thought of a life lived and fulfilled. Today as I walk and hear the gravel underfoot, the birds singing, the calm still day; I am grateful for all she did for me and the love she had for her family.
In memory of my mother - Patrick Kavanagh
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily
Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday -
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle - '
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life -
And I see us meeting at the end of a town
On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is a harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us - eternally.
We spent time together on Saturday, looking at old photographs and for about 30 minutes the conversation flowed, the stories remembered, the familiar connection made, the need to say goodbye - not said; but instinctively communicated and heard ... the hardest of goodbyes.
The finality of death must be the most painful to accept, no second chance, no opportunity to go back, final.
No Facebook or TikTok page has ever featured and no grave stone will stand to document a life, but in the presence of her family yesterday, I sat and thought of a life lived and fulfilled. Today as I walk and hear the gravel underfoot, the birds singing, the calm still day; I am grateful for all she did for me and the love she had for her family.
In memory of my mother - Patrick Kavanagh
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily
Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday -
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle - '
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life -
And I see us meeting at the end of a town
On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is a harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us - eternally.