The last time I saw my lovely girl she took me to the Gatwick bus in Brighton, and as it pulled out of the bus station, she rode along behind the bus, waving one red-gloved hand, the other being on the handlebar. She was smiling and making faces and blowing kisses. My face was pressed against the back window of the bus, trying to get closer to her.
She was wearing a silver bike helmet and her beautiful long red hair streamed in the wind. She rode along until we got to the motorway where bicycles weren't allowed. I saw her turn off at the roundabout and go back towards Brighton. I watched until she disappeared into the traffic. I was never to see her alive again.
When she died, I was positive that never again could I experience joy: I would be content to simply find some release from anguish. So the last years have been spent in search for spiritual meaning. At the loss of this most beloved child, the notion that "at the heart of creation lies a good intent, a purpose from which we come, by which we live our fullest and to which we return, " the idea that there was a compassionate Creator of the Universe, vanished.
It is a beautiful and comforting belief. But why then is there so much suffering in the world? All the joy in my life seeped away, like air from a balloon. The energy which comes from love slipped away too, on silent feet into the dark night.
That love that I had for her, and the sense of purpose that I had, just to be her mother, evaporated. She was no longer there with Kim in her blue house, high on the hill above Brighton, looking over the English Channel.
When I go there, I stand at the window, looking over the garden to the grey sea. There is an apple tree under which I planted bluebells, and a bird feeder. It is a holy place. But she is not there.
Diana Morris
September 2013
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