Irises and Memories

We have reached the end of May and the sky is cloudless and blue. It's early morning but already the sun is hot so I've shifted myself and my table into the dappled shade of the willows to write. Above me the House Martins are on the wing, darting in and out of their nests in the eaves to feed their hungry broods. I can hear children up on the hill laughing and squealing with delight. Someone has taken the hose out to cool them off.

Down here in the garden, it's a quieter scene. Orange-tipped butterflies flutter over swathes of nepeta and lunaria. The old cat yawns and stretches on the warm flagstones, contented to leave them alone for now. A blackbird hops into the undergrowth, checking on the progress of the strawberries and blueberries. I'll know when they are ready because he will have eaten them all. The birds are quieter now than in early spring, most sitting on eggs, but the musical trills and warbles of a wren ring out from the low brambles in the hedge. It comforts me that this little brown bird can make such a big impact with its beautiful song.

It appears to be a typical day, yet the fragrance of the bearded irises as they open breaks my heart once more. Today, May 25th, marks the anniversary of our mother's passing. The sweet scent of these flowers is now inextricably linked to the memory of losing her. The pain of her loss feels new again.

The last time I was with her, she took a walk here around the garden shaky on legs, with me holding her arm, worried about her taking a tumble. It was a beautiful sunny morning just like this one, and she was happy and full of chat. A butterfly landed on her sleeve, which made her face light up, and she looked so young again in that moment. It's a lasting memory of her that I cherish.

It's been a year, and not a day goes by without me thinking of mum and missing her. Daily reminders of her are woven into everything including the things I say and how I say them. I think as I get older I will understand her better and I wish I could tell her that. Even the singing wren in the hedge brings her to mind because she loved to offer a song for us, whether you requested one or not . I feel a life is well-lived if memories of you bring smiles and laughter to those left behind. My mum held both my grandmothers in her arms as they passed. I wish I could have done the same for her, but I was too late and she had already gone. However I'm comforted to know she often said she wanted to pass peacefully in her own bed, unaware of the moment, just slipping away quietly.

May has traditionally been a month of birthdays and celebrations in our family. Babies being born, people getting married, and long days filled with light, BBQs, and garden parties. It's a month of hope, renewal, and life. Losing a loved one in May, you realize how life and loss, joy and sorrow exist alongside each other and we don't get to choose the settings on that. I have learned this year that grief can show up in any place, on any day, even in moments of happiness and celebration. But just when you think the pain is more than you can bear, there has been light, things to be joyful about, and room enough for both in the heart.

When the scent of the irises arrives in May, I will delight in them and I will remember holding my mother's hand in the garden, how I loved her and she loved me, and for as long as I breathe in this world, I know she will be here in all these things also. The blooming irises, the singing wren, the orange-tipped butterfly...

I am grateful for all of them.