¦ dialling in from Jesus Mound ¦
I'm sitting in the cavernous space of the extended lounge at the back of the house. Darkness pressing up against the windows and French doors. The place looks just as it did when mum died. My sister's not changed anything since I've been away; it's a good thing. There's nobody here right now, and the place is cold, just the same as when I arrived here a couple nights ago... so it's strange because mum was ALWAYS here, and the heating was always set to FURNACE level, but so far hasn't been as upsetting or freaky as thought it might have been.
I saw another double rainbow today. Hello mum, I said, smiling as I strolled through Jesmond streets gazing up at the sky.
It's good being here. Bruges really did something very positive for my emotional state. I'm aware of the absence of mum but I'm not reeling at the fact of it. Acceptance? Perhaps.
Having Pete next door has been a massive bonus. He and I have been swapping observations and doing that man thing of rationalising and placing emotional experiences within a logical construct. My first night back up here I spent about 20 minutes in the empty house, alone, before deciding I needed some human company and padded round next door via the shared decking at the back of the houses. There was Pete, Rosie and the kids, the family next door, bloody good people and the kind of friends you really want. I got so hammered on whisky that I fell asleep sitting upright on Pete's vast sofa, and woke myself up with a back of the nose snore, jolting upright from a partial slump, aware that Pete was drifting around happy to leave me be... I lurched to my feet and shuffled back home. Empty house. No problem. I can handle it.
Later...
My sister is an angel.
Coming home I'd had a sudden and sad realisation that I'd never have mum's home-cooked chicken curry again. I said this to my sis the first day back and a big grin spread across her face, "Well, actually, mum told me how she made it before she died... along with all the Norwegian cake recipes of our childhood."
A few days later my sister made me a massive pan of mum's home made chicken curry. Perfect. Exactly right. I'm very happy.
Later...
End of November. It's the 3rd anniversary of my dad dying. My sister and I took a taxi to the coast. Everyone said we were nuts, the rain was screaming in horizontally. Even the taxi driver questioned us when we said we wanted to be dropped off in Tynemouth. But as we arrived the rain just stopped. However the wind was at terminal velocity. The sea was churned up and jaw-dropping in its rage and beauty. I took a ton of photographs of the pier getting battered by waves that were easily 40 metres high. Incredible. Then we went to Marshalls and ordered plates of fish and chips; sitting down at the table we lit a small candle for dad at 3.45pm. A really special afternoon. Very positive.
Later...
They've just brought mum back home. Her ashes. Damn, she's heavy! *smiles at mum* My sister and I lit candles, put a CD of Mozart on, and hung out the Norwegian flag. She's currently on the coffee table, next to her armchair, with a fresh cup of coffee and a brown sugar cube resting in a teaspoon. We'll take her upstairs tonight and place her in her bedroom.
Later...
I'm back into the swing of writing. Currently getting close to the end of chapter 15. I reckon that's a clear sign that I'm ready to return to my reality. Today's Thursday. I start work next Monday and I'm actually looking forward to it. It will signify a line being drawn under this current phase. Not an end to my grief or the sense of loss and profound change, but an end to the period of mum's death and its immediate aftermath. I feel as though I've been on an extraordinary journey. I really do.
I fly home tomorrow. Back to Bristol. Can't wait to see Jo.
Strange to think though, that this is one of the last trips I'll be doing... or so I'm guessing. In the next few weeks / months, the house will disappear and so will much of my connection to this city. A couple of friends left, but I can see them in Bristol or other places. How often will I return to my past, I wonder, when all of this is finally dealt with? I spent the first 21 years of my life in this city, but I no longer consider it to be my home.