The schedule for clearing out the house had proved a little awkward, squeezed into the school holidays. Nonetheless, I had resigned myself to the task, drawing surprising comfort, a chance to say my own goodbyes. Last month’s funeral, the public sharing and celebration of Mum’s life had been stressful and I was glad for these private moments.
It was now my turn to have her to myself. Her clothes, a lingering perfume, memories of those special outfits, paraded for our approval, before she and Dad sashayed off, dancing in the darkened lounge, Benny Goodman setting the pace.
I waded through a linen closet that could have serviced a salubrious hotel for months, her treasures in the glass cabinet, the books, Dad’s tools, in the shed. There were decisions about what could go to the Salvos, what could be sold, given away.
I hadn’t lived ‘at home’ for twenty years. Funny, to realise how dated things had become, the chunky, green bathroom fittings, the curtains, the tiles in the kitchen. I was camping in my old room, a bit spooky, even discovered some of my old toys in the wardrobe.
I was tackling the bookshelves. I came across the Oxford Book of English Verse, one of Mum’s favourite anthologies. Something fluttered to the floor. It was a sealed envelope, addressed to me!
Inside were several old, mottled pages, covered in my mother’s spidery scrawl. Splotches might be remnant teardrops, smudges that had taken the ink down the page. The letter was dated ten years earlier!
“My Dearest Phoenix,
I have held this secret for too long. It is time to release a wickedness, hoping the light of day might provide some forgiveness of my sin, committed all those many, many years ago.
In my heart, I know my actions were wrong, but I secretly took comfort in the belief that I was being asked for help. I could only surmise a cry from some young teenage girl, desperate for my intervention.
I too was needing emotional support, carrying my own grief over those weeks. I was shattered, but you were suddenly there. Were my prayers being answered?
I was returning from the shops, I heard your distressed cries, and then saw the bassinet as I turned left along Crystal Street. I picked you up, I felt my milk coming down, I hurried home, cuddling you, my hiccupping tears wetting your head.
…”