Buried Dad's ashes on Saturday, and when everyone else had left, my brother and I found ourselves chatting to him as if he was still alive in his little grave, or floating around us in some ethereal way. It's good to have a point of focus to remember him from, and a crisp new stone with white writing and fresh flowers in a timeless country graveyard is as good as it gets.
The vicar did a great piece about dead looking things going into the ground, like daffodil bulbs, and producing something unexpectedly beautiful.
Mother cried and thanked everyone, and said how good it was and cried some more. Then she asked if she had died yet, or whether it was just Dad.
After a great tea party upstairs in the care home that has been her home for 8 months, and half an hour in the garden, we wheeled her back into the day room. A look of genuine astonishment appeared on her face, "Who are all these people? I'll never be able to cook for them all."
But despite that, she's starting to make friends now.
