Eleventh Station
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| Seawall - Crosby |
The fears of a Father’s people
The tools of a father’s trade
Abandonment is hammered home
Nothing really matters
my mother and my grand-daughter two years ago Today I visited my family home for perhaps the last time. My mother died nearly five months ago now, peacefully at home and after a long illness, and it has taken this long for the initial sense of loss to pass; the paperwork to be processed and the division of belongings, bequests and gifts to be made. Today I called in to collect the last items before the house goes on sale. Books, pictures, unmatched crockery, glass bowls and vases; holy statues and pictures; the usual accumulation that remains after 48 years of living in the same house. Those items of sentimentality and personal taste that none of us wants and no-one can bear to throw away. Indeed it was a dying wish that nothing was thrown away. My father also died at home, five years ago, and I have to say that I have never gone into the house without being aware of his presence. To the point that sometimes I used to pray for him to go. But the truth is, that ...
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