How can I celebrate the hard life of my late mum?

DEAR BEL,

MY MUM died on Monday, February 5, and I’m on my own for the first time. I do feel so very alone, but I just wanted to tell someone what a wonderful mum she has been.

She would have been 81 next week and still worked at Asda. She was a minor celeb in the shop — they were all so kind to her.

What’s hard to remember is that she had such a tough life. She was so tired some days, but the bit of money she earned meant she could stay in the house I was born in 45 years ago and in which my dad passed away 35 years ago. Mum was widowed when she was 45 and brought up two small children working three jobs. She never remarried but, however hard it must have been, she was always there for us.

My sister emigrated 13 years ago and had little contact with us afterwards. I spoke to or saw Mum every day — and that used to cost me a fortune when I was away on holiday. She got the flu the week before last and I found her collapsed on the floor.

It turned into sepsis and pneumonia and she remained in intensive care until she died, with me by her side. Life support was withdrawn and I held her hand to the end.

My sister came back. We have lost two of Mum’s sisters in the past nine months, so I have a funeral of the second auntie coming up as well as organising Mum’s.

My mother was always the first to put money into charity boxes and always kept a pound in her pocket should someone need it more than her (that’s what she said).

I dread having to find new homes for her three beloved cats. She would take in any stray animal and try to make it better.

I can celebrate her as the best mum, but perhaps not such a hard life . . .

Perhaps you will be able to help me if you know of a poem that I can dedicate to her. That would be lovely. I do need things to help — anything that you can suggest.

Tears are flowing now so I had better go, but thank you for listening. ROSE

THIS week it was impossible not to choose your letter, as I have been left deeply affected by the death (last Sunday) of a very old, dear friend.

He was a good, kind, noble spirit, a marvellous husband, father and citizen. Our children grew up together; the world is a worse place without him in it. But then, that’s how you feel, too, isn’t it, Rose? Every single loss diminishes us, as John Donne so memorably said, but the death of a beloved mother cuts right through the heart.

I am so sorry to read of your sorrow and touched that you chose to write to me just two days later.

Your father died when you were ten and you witnessed how hard your wonderful mother worked to take care of you and your sister. Since your sister emigrated, it’s all been about you and your mum, hasn’t it?

The new emptiness at the centre of your life must loom so dark and cold, and I would not presume to try to offer any easy words of condolence. Yet I will suggest that you don’t look back at her life so negatively as to regret that it was ‘ hard’ and ‘tough’.

Yes, she grew tired, especially as she was working in the supermarket right

up to the end. But that work gave her pride and independence, don’t forget — and the fact that her co-workers thought so highly of her must have given her much pleasure.

Would she have changed that aspect of her life? Somehow I doubt it. I’m sure she was proud of what she made of things. And of you.

So now comes the time ahead — when, wherever you are, your mum is there, too. There is a lovely little poem by Jeanne Willis that expresses this thought: Where do people go to when they die? Somewhere down below, or in

the sky? ‘I can’t be sure,’ said Grandad,

‘ but it seems ‘They simply set up home

inside our dreams.’

You ask me for a poem for your mum and I could give you an armful, like a bouquet, if I had more space.

I know people can find the wisdom of others comforting — when it seems impossible to find the words to express grief or despair, and when all feels dark and confusing.

But perhaps you could try to write your own. Not rhymes of course, just short thoughts.

Take a piece of paper and write down five things to summon her image to your mind. Did she have an old handbag in which she kept all sorts of essentials? What was her laugh like? Did she wear loose dresses on summer days when you were young?

Memories are powerful. For example, if I close my eyes I remember my grandmother walking along in Liverpool, balanced each side by two heavy shopping bags. Yes, I can see her, even though she died when I was 23.

So what music did your mum sing along to? Play it and write down your own memories, your own poem, your own love.

But, in the meantime, here is an extract from the Victorian poet Matthew Arnold: Her mirth the world required She bathed it in smiles

of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her heart

was yearning, And now peace laps her

round.