Red coat of your mum
It hurts, does it, love?
Not at all, dear Ethel, off to bed you go.
I stared at her, disbelief flooding my eyes. She was in painpain so sharp it seemed to echo inside me. At seventeen I truly believed I could give my life if it meant saving hers.
Did you take your pills? Fancy a mint tea, or just a glass of water? I can see youre feeling dreadful.
My dear, youre fine, my little sparrow. Its time you slept; tomorrow you have two exams. Have you gone over everything?
I gently brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. That was a lie, born of love and the desperate urge to shield her from worry. I already knew the truth, and no one could fool me. If I were five, Id have believed it and soothed myself, but seeing her dimming eyes was almost unbearable.
Right, I muttered, clenching my own lip with a grimace.
In the soft glow of the orange lampshade on the bedside lamp, her face seemed almost youthful; the fine lines around her eyes softened, her skin took on a gentle peach hue like autumn leaves. The ache lodged somewhere left of her solar plexus, lower in the lung. Trying to look natural, I placed my hand on the blanket exactly over the spot where a tumour was gnawing inside her. I thought about how our bodies are concentrated energy, how were all woven from the same matter that makes up the universe.
I imagined the disease spilling into my hand as tiny glowing particles, climbing up my arm and settling deep in my chest. Id take it for myself! Id lock it away in a sturdy cell and never let it out! My mothers life was infinitely more precious than my own! There was no one on earth kinder, brighter, or purerhearted than she.
She looked at me with a tender smile, her gaze briefly clearing. I blamed it on my own optimism, wanting to believe my odd, desperate method was actually working.
What now?
Alright, alright, Im off. Good night, Mum.
And sweet dreams, my sparrow.
She showed up at my graduation ball, battling unimaginable pain. Adjusting the flower petals on my wrist bracelet, she whispered, Dont stare at me with such sorrow. Ill be there at your wedding, I promise.
A month later she was gone. The world shrank for me to the size of a tennis ball, and I stood on it alonecompletely solitary. The winds of the cosmos hurled me, lost and adrift, through every corner of existence. It was as if the home that always protected me had collapsed, walls turning to dust blown across every crossroads, and I, utterly defenseless, felt the chilling breath of hurricanes, tornadoes and barren wastelands that Mum had always guarded me from. The ruthless wind 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 in Manchester and moved to the city centre. My father, George, still sent me money and tried to offer moral support, but by then he had a new family, and his wife wasnt thrilled that, on top of the maintenance hed been paying, he continued to foot a hefty amount for me. Still, his help was a lifeline, and I took it gratefully. I spent five years in a dorm, returning to the flat Id shared with Mum only for winter holidays and brief summer visits. In the summer months I rented a room in the city and picked up odd jobs. All my classmates went home to their parents, and I simply had nowhere to go.
Even now, its hard to be in our house without her. Ive placed Mums photographs on every shelf, hung them in the hallway and kitchen. She watches me from everywhereso lively, joyful, full of mischief. It eases the loss a little, as if she never really died, just moved to another town.
The things she gave me on birthdays and Christmases are now worth hundreds of pounds to me. I plop down on the sofa, surround myself with the albums we made together, and, out of habit, dial her number. The line rings, then a crisp female voice says the subscriber cant take the call and suggests trying later. I stare at the framed picture on my desk, the one of us side by side. In the albums I hunt for our likeness, each time discovering new, previously hidden details. I pop a cassette into the old player: Mums voice, laughing, singing, dancingalive. She was impossibly elegant, feminine, soft. She was beautiful. My mum was beautiful. She was, is, and will forever be with me.
Do you remember, Mum, how after your divorce we cramped into that tiny room? You gave me two white rats, and they multiplied so fast we had to fish the newborns out of every crack and rush them to the pet shop; the ones the shop wouldnt take we gave away to anyone whod have them.
Do you recall how we rescued a fledgling raven from a ginger neighbourhood cat? It lived with us, grew feathers and flew off, but sometimes it popped its black head through the window and squawked, Caw! Im here! and we tossed it a slice of bread from our hands?
Do you remember how, as a child, I bit a piece out of that picture book of sweets because I imagined it tasted like the illustrations? We had no money for candy that evening you bought us the most gorgeous cake in the world.
Do you recall when we rummaged through Granddads old wardrobe and found a tiny icon with a photo of us tucked inside? Granddad later said it prayed for us each night
You know, Mum, how often, now fully grown, I walk past shop windows and, spotting something quirky, I think, Shed love that! Yesterday I saw a sleek red coat in a display and instantly imagined you beaming with delight. You always adored red and waistdefining garments. Now I buy those things for you in my dreams, Mum. I take you shopping in my mind, splurging on all the things you never could afford while you were alive.
The artist André Con
You gave me so much, and you did it with boundless love, which still lives inside me, reminding me that only your physical shell has faded, while your soul soars above the clouds, still watching over me, offering the right answers. Thats why I still feel your support, and it gives me strength to keep going, to find joy in each new day. Sometimes it overwhelms me, Muman unbearable yearning to press against you, to feel your familiar scent and warmth to the point Id scream with longing. In those moments I swear I can see you clearly: your face, smile, hair, hands, the silky, almost translucent handkerchief, even the faint trail of your perfume. I suddenly understand with startling clarity that youre still here, and your love continues to shield 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 mum, see how shes doing, whether shes well, everything alright.
He wasnt used to it at first; for him, parents are a given, always there and ready to help.
When we visit his family, I always buy gifts for his mother and persuade my husband to give them to her in my name. She blushes politely, unaccustomed to a grownup son showing such care. It fills my heart with warmth and joy After all, shes a mum, his mum, as irreplaceable as you once were to me. I never intruded on her heart nor tried to replace my own mother, but one day I asked her for advice about lingering health worries, and she erupted, Why didnt you tell me sooner? Why keep it hidden?
I didnt want to burden you with my troubles.
What burden? Youre my daughter now, and Im your mum. Your own mum may be gone, but Im here!
I wept then, recalling her words. After years of deep loneliness, I finally have someone I can call mum with a pure heart. Im her daughter now, though no one will ever call me my sparrow again. And thats fine.
The word mum is shortfour letters, two of them the samebut within it lies the fundamental meaning that matters most to any human being.
