If you've read this blog for a while, or perhaps read my old 100 Things post, then you probably know that both of my parents passed away from cancer many years ago. My mum died at the age of 55 when I was 21, and it's amazing to me to think that she would be 77 years old now. Today.
Wow. Aside from the frailty that came from the latter stages of her cancer illness, the image I have of my mother is fixed in middle age. To think of her as elderly is a mind shift I can't quite make. She was 34 when I was born, the last of the three kids. So she was in her forties for much of the childhood I remember. A short, busty, friendly, popular woman. One who negotiated the relationship with my rather taciturn father with quite a bit of patience, pursed lips sometimes and the rare cathartic plate smash. (She kept a small stack of old crockery under the kitchen sink just for that purpose.) She loved Sean Connery's 'James Bond', English comedies and action movies, and when she found something funny would laugh in a high whooping laugh that still makes me smile to think of it.
We were good mates she and I, and if we ever fought we always ended it by agreeing that we were friends again. Happy Birthday mum, I miss you.