Tuesday, 21 February 2017


A sunny day in my parents' garden, so long ago.  Love and warmth radiates from this photograph, and I wish my own children could have known these two.  Dad died
just weeks before the birth of my first child, and mum died when I was 9 weeks pregnant with my fourth, the oldest one just five years old.  I have tried to keep their memories alive, whilst hiding the true depths of my pain at the loss of them.  These two who reached middle age before an opportunity to become parents presented itself, and they took it.

My father left my mother just weeks before my birth, and my adoption was arranged during the month of March ready for my birth in April.  What did she feel? Those feelings must be part of me, the lens through which I see the world.  I think of her often, of course, but hardly ever of him.  Was he a good man? Does he think of me ever?  What is his name? 

All this would have been brewing around this time of year, the same time of year that my adoptive father died and then my own first child, my son, was born just two weeks after my own birthday.  Such a potent time, the first signs of spring out there, releasing us from winter's hold.

Carrying little ones in dressing gowns to their mummy's car last night, the air smelt of the year to come.  Walking back to my house where my grown up family are drinking tea and laughing.  Can mum and dad see them?  Does my birth mum get a sense of them, of me?  Do any of my four parents know the depth of my gratitude to them, for my life?  I visualise my gratitude flowing outwards from my heart, my being, weaving strong golden threads that connect the ones I cannot see to those around me, shining in the dark.


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