My mother died on 25th May.
We buried her on Thursday this week, in a seagrass woven casket covered with huge white garden roses and creamy-white climbing roses – her favourite flowers – and Viburnum, Agapanthas, Hosta and Eucalyptus leaves and grasses, which cascaded over its edges like a slightly unruly garden.
The sun shone as she was lowered into a grave under the dappled shade of a fruit tree in the cemetery. Family and friends came from far and wide to mark her passing. We all cried.
In a way, we started losing her nine years ago, but perhaps because we spent so much time with her in her last years and watched her struggle with what she could not articulate, nor possibly understand, oddly, her death was still shocking.
Dementia is the cruellest of diseases. Like cancer, it seems to seep out of the person suffering from it and affects everyone around them, but it is worse because it denies communication and therefore solace. We can only be thankful that its grasp is now gone and be grateful for her life and for all that she gave to us.
I loved her. May she rest in peace.
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