Mum sits on the hard verandah floor with her rounded back to me, feet on the concrete steps down to the bronzed lawn, shoulders slumped and arms slack by her side—weighed down and emptied out. I wonder if she’s cried yet.
It was a modest funeral without tears. A group of gentlemen from the nursing home came and two previous neighbours, Betty from next door and Mrs Karlson in the downstairs apartment, both with their walkers. Mum had managed to organise all the finer details over the phone; an oak coffin, a simple arrangement of white lilies, Chopin, and a sepia portrait of Grandma at Mum’s age, not a great likeness but the same deep set eyes, the same reticent smile. Mum is prettier, I must tell her that.Read More