Remnants of a life well lived

It was the sofas that got me. Pink velour, now more dusty than dusky – a matching pair, stuffed with memories of days spent drinking, chatting and laughing with my mum in her flat in Amersham, and for many years before that in her bungalow in Mumbles, Swansea. (The picture shows my sister Ginette, niece Amy and mum Lucille cuddling up on one of them.)

As I watched them being carried out of the door and placed in a white van, I saluted them and thanked them for their service.

I did the same for the ancient pair of storage/shelving units that Mum liked to call her “bureaux”; the CD/DVD cupboards, coffee and occasional tables; and (deep breath) the gilt-framed print of Constable’s The Haywain that survived two moves and originally took pride of place in the lounge of our childhood home in Beckenham, Kent. My brother, sister and I had a sibling debate about this one but none of us had the will nor the wall space to extend its lifespan.

But yeah, it was the sofas that made me tear up. I remember when Mum bought them in the early 90s, when my parents moved back to Swansea, their home town.

The purchase of sofas was such a rare event. Being part of the wartime generation, they only replaced items when they were falling apart.

I still have one of Mum’s kitchen whisks, which I commandeered after her move into a retirement complex five years ago. I couldn’t believe she’d kept what was essentially a museum piece, but there it was (pictured), rusty and no longer able to perform its sole function.

But… back to the sofas. Out of everything that was still left in the flat she vacated in January to move into a care home, the sofas symbolised the heart of our family as much as Mum herself.

It was like saying goodbye to her all over again.

Grief is a tricky business. There are tsunamis of sadness, but also little waves of letting go.

As I watched the remnants of a life well lived being loaded into a transit van, destined for the council tip, I was also letting go of some family history.

I’ve often heard friends say: “When they’ve gone, you carry them in your heart.” Watching the departure of the sofas, the true meaning of that sentence started to sink in.

Mum – you’ll always be in my heart. And if it’s OK with you, I’m picturing you in there, sitting comfortably on your pink velour sofa, glass of prosecco in hand.