Mum

By Amy Eason

She left when I was 8, Papa pulled Nathan and I onto his lap and said the short sentence, Mummy is with the angels in heaven. I burst into tears, for a few minutes at least and then appeared to bounce back and carried on playing in my aunties garden. 

I think I seemed fine to everyone around, even as early as 8 years old I had the inclination to push that trauma deep into my belly, into my legs, into my toes and focus on sunshine and teasing my little brother and putting on elaborate singing performances for all of the grieving relatives visiting our house, I wonder if they saw through the façade? 

I remember crawling into Papas bed one morning in the months after and saying I missed mummy - the first time I made that admission and would only admit a few times more throughout my life. He held me and said I didn’t have to go to school. Then I was sunshine again and we did paintings at the kitchen table. He was my saviour but he is another story for another time. 

Looking back now, at that sweet, confused, terrified little girl, I know she just wanted everything to be normal. For there to be no pain. So she pretended there wasn’t any and then she believed it. 

She did that for many years.

She told lies at school, like she did in fact have a mum and she worked at the greengrocers, heartbreakingly, everyone knew this was a tale but played along. She made up fantabulous stories about the mother she was and what she cooked us for dinner. That little girl never wanted to admit she was different from anyone else. There was a deep shame there, again, she pushed it down to her toes. 

As I grew older and subsequently met others who had also experienced grief at such a tender age, I realised I wasn’t alone in my feelings. I allowed myself to unfurl, just a little and confront the truths I had tried so hard to bury. 

It was liberating to be able to say to my new friends that my mother was dead. I had never realised the power of saying those words out loud, it was like an exorcism.

Before that, I had felt guilty, keeping her a secret - like I was doing her a disservice. Denying her own unique imprint on life, like her fierce maternal beauty, her loving partnership with my Papa, her kindness and how she kept her laughter throughout her transition through death from this earthly incarnation.

Now I could say her name, Kay. And how she died and how it made me feel. I felt less alone in my darkness, being able to share my experience helped to bring in light and in that newly lit space, love grew with these people through our shared human connection. 

They are now my best friends and I know will be my chosen sisters for life. That is the power of connection, it’s through sharing our sadness, loss, heartbreak, joy, peace and triumph that we see ourselves reflected in each other, we are able to open our hearts to the expanse of true divine love.