A year ago today, my Mum died from Covid. My cousin was fighting for his life. Myself and my brother had low oxygen levels. My friend, who as a health care worker had already had received his first Covid jab, was just well enough to make sure that I had lots of soup and tea (which thanks to the virus tasted very odd indeed).
I miss my Mum, I wish she was here to talk to, and to do things with. Clothes shopping was Mum’s passion her whole life, ‘clothes maketh the man’ (which she told me also included women!), was her mantra. I still think of her when I go to Marks and Spencer’s, try on some clothes and still see her sitting on the chair in the changing room, firmly clutching my coat and handbag as she voted thumbs up or thumbs down to my clothes selection, like some ancient emperor.
As much as I miss her, I am so happy that her early life is written down. That all those special times we spent together are there for me to read. She will never be forgotten and in a sense she is immortal now. As each month goes by, another stranger will read about what she did for our futures. How she steered the family in one generation, from a life of want, to a life of plenty.
I had absolutely no intention of writing a book, which even now sounds so grandiose. I simply started to write down our family stories, one by one, just so that I could remember them. At the time Dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and I think I was hedging my bets, just in case I had inherited the wrong genes.
A year later, life seems to be easier to deal with. We are all fully recovered from Covid. Some of Mum’s special things are on display in the china cabinet in my home, and the book with her story is on display along with them.
I would urge you all to write down your family stories. When your loved ones are gone, these memoires are priceless, and also a great a comfort when you miss them the most.
J.M. Phillips
Author of LAMLASH STREET: A Portrait of 1960’s Post War London Through One family’s Story
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