Invented by wholesale distributors of greetings cards, and daffodil bulb salesmen to induce guilt in hopeless fathers. The one day that children consider their mothers with loving cards made from scraps of everything that PVA can barely muster a tenuous grip.
Or whatever.
Been thinking about this all week. Or month, truth be told.
Decisions. Not much use at them normally, which is why it's taken to now. Awoke to the howling winds beating the house as the sun rose, nursing a cider and bourbon head. Haven't drunk to "can't drive" since - well it's been sometime. No matter. Head faded. Loaded the Skylark and headed off to the beach.
Kate spoke of windmills. Had a passion for them - always wanted one in the village. As she faded, panicked in and out of morphine dreams, once again, the windmills.
From the beach in Scratby, on our annual caravan holiday, we watched as they built the offshore windmills on Scroby Sands. Saw them rise out of the sea. We'd go and visit them until, one day, they began to turn. Beautiful, elegant blades, stealing energy from the wind. Turning it into light. Or heat. Or cups of tea.
We had one last holiday, one last trip to the beach, just a few shorts weeks before Kate died. She was so proud of herself, mustering the climb down, and back up, the rickety wooden stairs down the sandy cliffs.
And on this lively Mothering Sunday, the kids and I buried Kate's ashes. Beneath the crumbling cliffs and rickety bungalows, facing across to her windmills.
To those that came to share the day with us. I thank you.
Goodbye my lover. Goodbye my friend.
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