The scarlet coat of my mother
Are you hurting badly, Mum?
Not at all, Blythe, go to bed now.
I stared at her, stunned. The pain was real, sharp, and it seemed to flow straight into me. At seventeen I truly believed I could give my own life if it meant keeping hers alive.
Have you taken your tablets? Would you like some mint tea, or just a glass of water? I can see youre not well.
Im fine, love, you should be asleeptomorrow you have two Alevel exams. Have you reviewed everything?
I brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. It was a lie wrapped in love, a desperate wish to shield her from worry. I already knew the truth, and nothing could deceive me. If I were five, I might have believed it and calmed down, but the sight of her fading, dimming eyes was unbearable.
Right, I muttered, clenching my teeth hard enough to bite my own lip.
In the soft glow of the orange nightlamp, her face looked almost youthful; the fine lines around her eyes softened, her skin taking on a gentle peach hue like autumn leaves. The ache nested somewhere left of her solar plexus, low in her lung. Trying to appear natural, I placed my hand over the blanket exactly where the tumor was growing inside her, devouring her from within. I thought of our bodies as concentrated energy, all of us woven from the same matter that makes up the universe.
I imagined the illness spilling into my hand as glowing particles, climbing up my arm, settling deep in my chest. I would take it for myself, lock it in a strong prison and never let it out. My mothers life was infinitely more precious than my own. No one on earth had a heart kinder, brighter, or purer than hers.
She smiled tenderly, her gaze briefly clearing. I told myself this was proof that my desperate method was working.
Well?
Alright, alright, Im leaving now. Good night, Mum.
Sweet dreams, love.
She came to my graduation prom despite excruciating pain. Adjusting the petals on my flower bracelet, she whispered quietly,
Dont look at me with such sorrow. Ill be there at your wedding, I promise.
A month later she was gone. The world shrank to the size of a tennis ball, and I stood on it alonecompletely solitary. The winds of the cosmos tossed me through every hidden corner of existence. My oncesteady home, the place that always protected me, collapsed; its walls turned to dust scattered at every crossroads. For the first time I felt the icy breath of hurricanes, twisters and barren wastelands that my mother had once shielded me from. The ruthless gale of early adulthood tried to knock me down at every uncertain step, forcing me to plant my feet firmer, think clearer, set sharp goals and never look back.
I enrolled at university and moved to the county town of York. My father, John Harper, still contributed financially and tried to offer moral support, but by then he had a new family. His wife wasnt thrilled that, on top of the child support hed already paid, he continued to send me sizeable sums. Still, his help was a lifeline and I accepted it gratefully. I spent five years in a student hall, returning to the flat I once shared with my mother only for winter holidays and brief summer visits. During the summer months I rented a room in the city and found parttime work. All my classmates went home to their parents, but I had nowhere else to go.
Even now it hurts to be in the house without her. Ive placed her photographs on every shelf, hung them in the hallway and kitchen. She watches me from every corneralive, joyous, full of spirit. It eases the loss a little, as if she never truly died, merely moved to another town.
The gifts she gave me over the years have become worth hundreds of pounds in sentiment. I sit on the sofa, surround myself with our photo albums, and, out of habit, dial her number. The line only returns a recorded message: The subscriber cannot answer right now. Please try again later. I stare at the framed picture on my desk, the one of us together. In the albums I hunt for our resemblance, discovering new traits each time. I pop a cassette into the player: my mother laughs, sings, dancesalive and elegant, feminine and soft. She was beautiful. My mother was beautiful. She was, is, and will always be with me.
Do you remember, Mum, how after your divorce we crammed into that tiny room? You gave me two white rats, and they multiplied so fast we had to chase their countless babies out of every nook and hand them over to the pet shop, giving away the rest to anyone who wanted them.
Do you recall the ginger stray cat, Jasper, we rescued from a redhaired neighborhood tom that was clutching a small crow? Jasper lived with us, grew feathers, flew away, but sometimes returned, poking his black head through the window and cawing, Caw! Im here! and we fed him bread from our hands.
Do you remember how, as a child, I bit a piece from a picture book full of sweets because I couldnt afford any? That evening you bought us the most beautiful cake in the world.
Do you remember when we tore apart Grandmas old wardrobe and found a tiny icon tucked inside, beneath which lay a photograph of us together? Granddad later said it was prayed over for both of us each night.
Mum, how often now, as an adult, I walk past shop windows and catch myself thinking how much youd love that thing? Yesterday I saw an elegant red coat in a display and instantly imagined you beaming with delight. You always adored red and outfits that highlighted a waist. Now I buy all those things for you in my dreams, taking you shopping, spoiling you with everything youd have wanted but never could have while you were alive.
Artist André Conn
You gave me so much, with boundless love that still lives inside me, reminding me that only your physical shell has faded; your soul soars above the clouds, watching from there, still guiding me, giving me strength to live on and find joy in each new day. Sometimes the yearning to press my face to yours, to feel your familiar scent and warmth, overwhelms meso fierce I want to scream. In those moments I seem to see you clearly: your face, smile, hair, hands, the silklike veil you wore, even the faint trail of your perfume. I suddenly understand, with crystal clarity, that youre still here, your love still protecting me, helping me move forward. You were always proud of me, even when there seemed no special reason, simply because I was your daughter.
Every weekend I remind my husband:
Call your mother, ask how shes doing, if shes alright.
He wasnt used to it at first; for him parents are just a given, always nearby and ready to help. When we visit his parents, I always bring a present for his mother and persuade my husband to give it to her on my behalf. She blushes modestly, touched by the attention, unaccustomed to a grown son showing such care. It fills my heart with warmthshe is a mother, his mother, irreplaceable just as you once were to me. I never intruded on her life, but one day I asked her for advice about a lingering health issue. She exclaimed,
Why didnt you tell me sooner? Why keep it hidden?
I didnt want to burden you with my troubles.
What burden? Youre now my daughter, and I am your mother. Your own mother is gone, but Im here!
I wept remembering her words. After years of deep loneliness, I finally had someone I could truly call mother. I became her daughter, yet no one will ever call me my little bird again. And thats fine.
The word mum is shortfour letters, two of them repeatedbut it holds the most fundamental meaning for any person.
Life taught me that love doesnt end when a body dies; it lives on in memories, habits, and the quiet strength we carry forward. By honoring those weve lost, we keep their spirit alive and learn that the greatest inheritance a parent can give is the resilience to face the world with a brave heart.
