It wasn't until you died that February day at 9:02 a.m., amidst a spate of blue moons, that I truly understood Albert Camus famous first line of The Stranger: Mother died today or maybe it was yesterday, I don't remember.
I wrote a poem to you and called it Summer Breeze.
The poem said every time I felt a soft summer breeze upon my cheek, I would know you were with me.
A few weeks later, uncomfortably warm in my grief I crossed the room to the window.
As soon as I opened it, a balmy breeze caressed my cheek and I knew you had come to comfort me.
In the years to come, I experienced a series of unpleasant firsts you would not have wanted to see.
Better for you to be removed from it, from knowing.
Better the summer breeze did not return.
But had you lived none of the darkness would have befallen me for you had a wisdom that protected me from harm, even while you battled your own demons.
Perhaps we kept each other in balance.
You were the one who taught me to look for the good in a person, rather than the bad.
You taught me about patience even though I could not practise it until I reached the age you were when you modelled it for me.
You had grace in ungracious circumstances.
You were gentle while being treated roughly.
I hope one day soon you will visit me again on the soft summer breeze.