All the seasons remain but there’s no yesterday, or the day before and maybe no tomorrow. We share today. That’s what we have. When I wake, Mum isn’t in her bed again but droplets down the stairs and across the hallway make her easy to find. The backdoor is open and the cat is minding her. Mum is bent at the hip weeding in her nightdress and wellies. Marigolds, violets, begonias—all from seed—all in neat rows—the way Dad kept it. The wind has stolen the neatness from the plaits in her hair but at least she’s dry now. In late Autumn, the alliums will glisten with frost and again she’ll ask when Dad’s coming back, and like we’ve always done, we’ll plant the spring bulbs, snowdrops, daffodils, tulips. All the seasons remain but there’s no yesterday, or the day before and maybe no tomorrow.
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