Other mothers

Mother's Day is, of course, a commercial construct, waiting for the guilt-ridden to unburden their gilt on confectionery, chocolates or gifts. Apparently rest homes around the country will find their usually empty visitors' car parks full, as mums are feted and visited. Just as dads are on Father's Day.

I've already tucked into my little heart-shaped cakes and placed my Mother's Day card at pride of place on the dresser.

But a certain sadness, is gathered in the dresser's dust; a tiny tea-cup, a gift from my God-mother, a ginger jar belonging to my mother's mother, and some of the dinner plates on which we chased peas at Sunday lunch at my paternal grandmother's. All these lovely women, who have helped to shape my life. All these lovely women, that I miss dearly.

When I was little, I used to stay with Nana Hall. She lived in a brick house, on Great North Road, not far from Waikumete Cemetery. If I close my eyes, I can find myself there in an instant. After mass each Sunday, we'd find ourselves around the old oak table, with places set for six. The dinner service featured a crowd of blue daisies dancing around the rim. Roast potatoes formed an island as they swum in a pond of gravy on the plate. Peas would float, and I'd chase these across the plate and try and tuck them into a serviette or under the table cloth. I wonder if the squashed peas stained the tablecloth? Nana never said anything. My brother and sister ate their peas.

Nana and I used to sing Rule Britannia as we waltzed around the house. Nana was born in the late 1800s, and had seen so much in her 88 years. But at 15, I'd never asked the right questions. And as I pore over faded and bent images, I wished I'd asked more; asked about her dreams, her loves, her passions. But these questions remain unasked, and the answers remain locked somewhere, far from here.

Nana Lynch, goodness where to start? She shared her flat with a herd of elephants, crowding shelves and doorways. Some were tiny, nestled into a bean. Charlie, the biggest watched over the bird bath in the garden. He was painted many colours over his life time, his last colour was yellow. I remember the toast and the "It's not an arm or a leg". I remember when my sister and I went to tidy Nana's flat, after her death, Dean Martin was on the record player, the arm still resting on the vinyl.

Aunty Margaret, my God-mother in every sense of the word. Imagine having an active God-mother, especially as you near the half-century. She was always on the end of the phone, and dished out helpful advice. It's between us, so I won't go into it. I remember when I was about 10, I was staying the night at her place. A dapper man came to afternoon tea. To the surprise, disbelief and eventual delight of family and friends, my spinster God-mother became unspinstered! Whatever next!

So what's this about, lovely women who have been big part of my life, and all who I love and miss dearly. I raise my glass to you all, with love, of course.