Cupcakes, robins and grief

A colleague of mine told me that Friday, two days ago, was an anniversary, the first, she was not looking forward to. Such discussions remind me of my own feelings, and of what 8th November means to me: it was the day, in 2002, now ten years ago, when my mother died.

I remember her pondering with me, when she was terminally ill in hospital, 'would I remember her each day', just like she thought of her mum, my Nana, each and every day. Well yes, mum, I have thought of you every day since, sometimes more than others, sometimes just in the background. But in different ways to the first two and a bit years.

For those two years, until Spring, I had been hurting, suffering, hopeless: worried about myself, would I ever pull out of it. And yet one day, and I can remember precisely where I was at the time, on our driveway near our gate, I saw the first robin of the Spring, and things lifted.

I always feel happy when seeing robin's now. I think they will always bring me happiness, and I can't see one, without thinking of happier times with mum.

For over two years, I feared seeming cupcakes, particularly 'butterfly' cakes, cream filled with 'wings': they were one of my favourite things that mum made. I dreaded seeming them, but after seeing the robin, my mood changed. I could enjoy them once again.

Now, years later, my younger daughter Sophie has been on a Hey! Little Cupcake! Course, and makes cakes such as this:

Now, when I eat such cakes, I enjoy them, having some understanding that life moves on, and the pleasure and importance of parents and children.

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