Every soul will taste death
Nov. 28th, 2013 04:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hawkwing_lbFlorence Mary Anselm Bourke (née Best), 24 February 1928 - 28 November 2013. Daughter of James Best and Elizabeth (née Byrne) Best. Survived by two siblings (that I know of), five children, several grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.
She died this morning around seven AM. I was not there. I saw her last on Sunday, a death's-head face over a skeleton frame, whose eyes did not open. She roused herself enough to mumble Love you before we left. I kissed her temple.
I miss her. I have missed her this whole last year, since her weakness grew so that she could not answer the phone. Missed calling her up when I was on the way home just to hear her voice. Missed driving out to lunch with her to hear her talk about the rest of the family, and nag me about my clothes or hair or money or was I ever going to find a nice boy and settle down. Missed her turning up on the doorstep on occasion, a terrible nuisance whose presence I did not realise how much I counted upon until I knew it would never come again. Missed, even, the provoking way she'd start a fight for deviltry or entertainment or because she wanted us to prove how much we loved her; needling my mother, winding me up. Missed knowing that she was there, that if I was hurt or in need or alone I could turn up at her door and in amongst the recrimination and I told you so, I'd be safe.
In every way that matters, she was my second parent, my other mother. She lived with us until I was ten. She had half the raising of me. Part of what I am I owe to her.
She was a terrible old woman. A trampler of personal boundaries, capable of a thousand petty cruelties, full of prejudices. But also capable of immense kindness and great generosity. And great patience. I remember, as a child of maybe three or five, not liking to sleep alone, not liking to sleep on a warm pillow: she put up with my demands of "Cool pilly over," until I fell asleep against her shoulder. Not just one night, but many nights.
I love you, Florence.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
She died this morning around seven AM. I was not there. I saw her last on Sunday, a death's-head face over a skeleton frame, whose eyes did not open. She roused herself enough to mumble Love you before we left. I kissed her temple.
I miss her. I have missed her this whole last year, since her weakness grew so that she could not answer the phone. Missed calling her up when I was on the way home just to hear her voice. Missed driving out to lunch with her to hear her talk about the rest of the family, and nag me about my clothes or hair or money or was I ever going to find a nice boy and settle down. Missed her turning up on the doorstep on occasion, a terrible nuisance whose presence I did not realise how much I counted upon until I knew it would never come again. Missed, even, the provoking way she'd start a fight for deviltry or entertainment or because she wanted us to prove how much we loved her; needling my mother, winding me up. Missed knowing that she was there, that if I was hurt or in need or alone I could turn up at her door and in amongst the recrimination and I told you so, I'd be safe.
In every way that matters, she was my second parent, my other mother. She lived with us until I was ten. She had half the raising of me. Part of what I am I owe to her.
She was a terrible old woman. A trampler of personal boundaries, capable of a thousand petty cruelties, full of prejudices. But also capable of immense kindness and great generosity. And great patience. I remember, as a child of maybe three or five, not liking to sleep alone, not liking to sleep on a warm pillow: she put up with my demands of "Cool pilly over," until I fell asleep against her shoulder. Not just one night, but many nights.
I love you, Florence.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
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Date: 2013-11-28 09:55 pm (UTC)This is love, as lived: the acknowledgement and appreciation and acceptance of the complicated and complex truths of another human being.
It is not sentimental (and I have nothing at all against the sentimental), but visceral, clear-eyed, truth.
When I die, I don’t want to leave grief behind. I don’t want to cause pain. But if -- *if* -- someone could see me as clearly -- good and bad -- and feel as you feel now, I think I could live in some small way in their lives.
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Date: 2013-11-29 12:53 am (UTC)A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
Hugs and sympathies. I am glad that both you and she could convey your love for each other the last time you were together.
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