Remembering Anne

Some people make a significant impression on us, through their lives. And usually, these same people change us significantly through their death. Today is All Hallows’ Eve. A day of remembering the dead. A day for everyone to honour those who are no longer with us. The faithfully departed. And it is a day to remember you in particular, on 31 October. Your day of death.

I wish it was a trick. That you would pop out from behind the door and surprise me. Laugh and tell me that you were here all this time, you were just hiding. Tricking us all for the past decade and more. Tricking us, like you used to do. You loved playing tricks. You also loved treats. Like no one else I know. Which is why I thought it was so ironic, that you would leave this world on All Hallows’ Eve. You, my mother-in-law. The beloved mother of my husband and his siblings. The wife of a devoted husband, your best friend, your soul mate, who our children, with deep love, call Pa.

We don’t need a single day to remember you. We don’t need a day to honour you, our faithfully departed. We don’t need an ‘All Hallows’ Eve’ because we carry you in our hearts every day. Every family gathering, someone is thinking of you. Every time we are together we know we are all holding you in our hearts. And when together, one of us will always share your memory. Mention you as part of a story. Or pause to look at a picture of you. Close our eyes and feel you nearby.

And it is like you knew this. You knew we would always remember you, our faithfully departed. And so, you gave us All Hallows’ Eve as the anniversary of your death. A day to remember the dead. A day filled with treats and trickery. How appropriate.

Two memories jump out at me when I think about you and trickery. One is Christmas day many years ago. You, knowing we would be arriving soon, planned with your daughters to set me up. Arranged a trap where I would think I had given away a surprise, with my big mouth. A surprise that your eldest daughter was coming for Christmas. She hid in the front bedroom. One of her younger siblings led me into the game, and you acted shocked of her impending arrival when I asked if she had turned up yet. It worked out as you had planned. It worked a treat. We all laughed together as she revealed that she had been hiding the entire time. Your trick a success. I think it hailed that Christmas.

The other memory is when we came to your door with heavy hearts almost 19 years ago. Frightened. We had just received news from medical specialists that the small child I was carrying inside me, already full of our unconditional love, could have a challenging condition. We were young. We were confused. We had gone to our ultrasound earlier that night, a naive young couple with plans to make special cards from the images of our baby, to share with you our surprise. Our pregnancy. Instead, we walked out, shattered and broken, clinging to those images with tears. Speechless. And so, we came to you, to hand over our fears and hopes.

You were entertaining some of your own children, their partners and kids. You did not know our situation. And as you heard our car pull up in your driveway, you cheekily turned off all the lights and hid. So, when we walked in, you all jumped out turning on the lights and yelling ‘surprise’. I burst into tears. The trick on us, turned on you. With shock you listened to our news, hugged us with great tenderness and care. Exactly what we needed. You then went and fetched an old bottle filled with what you said to be holy water. Lourdes water. And with great belief in its healing powers, you rubbed some on my belly, your hands full of love and faith. And today, I cannot help but think of you as I see our son, an adult. Healthy and strong. Perhaps he was always going to be that way. Perhaps it wasn’t the water. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was just that you wished it for us, so deeply, for everything to be okay. We will never know. But I always smile when I remember how you tricked us that night, turning out all the lights, before we walked in. Before we walked into your care.

So of course, we would remember you, on a day of tricks. How fitting. How apt. And as my children in their younger years dressed in Halloween costumes, and went from house to house, yelling ‘Trick or Treat’, I knew you were with them. I knew you were there.

Treats. You loved treats. Your family dinners and gatherings astonished me, to see all those desserts. More desserts than mains. The special things you would make at Christmas time. The white chocolate spiders. And your famous rolled pavlova. The cheese cake, my husband’s favourite, he would want to eat the whole thing by himself. I am sure he could. I am sure he did, at least once. And you, sneakily putting milo on your little finger and popping it into our baby boy’s mouth as he sat on your lap, looking up at you, his eyes full of adoration for his Nanna.

One of the biggest treats you served, was not one for the table. It was your famous head scratch. It was with great delight that one of us would sit on the floor in front of you, while you sat on the chair and ran your long nails along our scalp, while we watched TV. I only ever got to experience this as an adult, for that is when I came into your lives. But your children, they grew up with this delicacy. My memories of it make me smile from ear to ear, and it is the same for my son. I can only imagine, what it does for your children. The love that must burst from their souls when they think of you, and all you did for them. All the love you had for them.

Halloween was made for you with its trickery and treats. And you made it yours as you took to your wings and left us on this day many years ago. A day for us to mark in our hearts. To wake each year and know it was the day you departed. Leaving us with memories, photograph and a few gifts here and there.

I see you in your children’s eyes. Sometimes I hear you in their voices. We miss you. But you will always be in our hearts. Until we get to hold you in our arms once more.