After the storm

A month has gone by since my mum passed away.

I returned home two weeks ago and, since then, the intensity of the whirlwind which was her final few days has loosened into an ever-present anxiety about completing the clearance of her flat at a distance.

To do so has relied on the kindness of strangers (lovely removal men, who brought a number of her possessions to me last week), and the kindness of an old friend who – as I sit here, and only just realise – I have known for 30 years this September.

It has been painful, unsettling, and revelatory to discover that I can rely on others to do the things that they promised to do, without resentment or passive-aggression on their part. To be in exhaustion and overwhelm over how much was yet to be done at my mum’s flat, and to have my dear friend Bronwen reply to each new realisation with “Not a problem x”.

It is a form of love which perhaps others take for granted. To me it feels so contradictory to the stories I tell myself about the world, that my nervous system struggles to process it.

As it does with my mum’s death. What a strange sentence to write; undeniably true, and yet seemingly impossible.

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