Pretending....

Six months and seven days since my partner's Mum passed away; the marvellous, mighty Mo McKenzie. It's her birthday today and we should be fussing over her with presents, surprises, visits to my parents, glasses of rose’ wine and a meal out.
Instead, a friend, having recently passed a diploma in floristry, put together an oasis studded in perfect, blood red rose buds; Mo's favourite flower. I spend the morning cutting my hair, shaving and trimming my beard; I ironed my shirt, my partner's shirt and prepared myself.

It was overcast when we got to the gardens of the crematorium; the trees are waking up, putting out tender green leaves, some are in flower, holding back their foliage until the blooms have faded back; but it is the rose bushes. The beds, around the central area, which is crowded with purple-red heather and a single shining silver birch, are splashed with burgundy-green leaves from established rose bushes, pruned back ready to surge with life. The breeze is cold, more edged with winter than flushed with spring.

My partner picked the perfect spot to lay the oasis, out of the wind, within the bed of heather, so someone passing would come across it. We spoke aloud to Mo, wishing her a Happy Birthday, talking into the wind, which in life would've taken her breath away. It crossed my mind that it could not trouble her now; she was safe from the irritations of the world.

Then it hit me. A wave of coldness broke over me; the scene was bleak, the wind empty of her laughter, the world is somehow colder because of her absence.
I cried. Nothing extravagant or unseemly. Just a sob, tears pricking my eyes. We hugged and collected ourselves, gulping down the emotion, all too raw still, still bleeding.

We walked around the walls, looking at the black lettered plaques, reading the surnames on the memorials, Squibb, Comben and Stone; all local family names.
We go to celebrate her birthday, back to world where tears in a car park in front of Mo's favourite Tavern Restaurant would cause embarrassed looks. So instead of tears we toasted her on her birthday, talked about her last visit there, the fish dishes she always chose and loved so much; then we ate a good lunch remembering her cooking, her love of feeding us at her table and her pursuit of fresh Bass, Cod and Plaice.

Other diners made their way to their tables. Servers moved through the tavern, smiling, taking orders and clearing dishes. The table nearest the window had a young couple and their little girl at it. They sat relaxed and ate their food while the little brunette child happily played with her food and then climbed under the table to pretend.

She was in a tent, she announced, in a forest. Her Mum asked why a tent? Because of the wolves, they don't like tents. Ahh... the mother replied smiling at her husband. The girl pushed her parents feet one by one down on the carpet, narrating that these were the magic tent pegs to hold the tent down. Her eyes shine as she hears the growl of the animals prowling around the edge of her canvas; she squeals as her father's hand descends to play-pinch at the shoulder of her flowered dress. Recoiling, she leans against her mother's legs, throwing her arms back and joining her hands behind her mother’s calves. Her mum giggles, leaning down to coax her daughter out of her refuge and back into her chair to her meal.

"There were wolves," she says tucking into her meal, one chip at a time, lifting each with greasy fingertips.

"Were you scared?" Her Dad asks clawing at her shoulder, growling, making her giggle and recoil.

"No Daddy! I was pretending!"

Smiles bounce around the faces in the restaurant, knowing, glances exchanged with the happy parents.

I think about us sitting there; enjoying the food, the refreshing drinks and the anticipation of dessert, with the empty chair to my partner's side. We are pretending. We are walking around not thinking too hard in this reality; the first birthday without her. Pretending that Mo is elsewhere, shopping, at her little house, having an afternoon sleep or out for a paper. It is only standing in the winter breeze, the buds bursting on the branches, the leaves shuddering in the light that we cannot avoid the reality. Only there the pretending shatters, casting sharp edges and coldness into our hearts, provoking tears.

But for the moment we remember past birthdays, her love of fresh fish, the stories about the Old Country, her home, her Dublin, her trials and triumphs; and for this string of moments we pretend. The place is bare, the chair unmoved but she's away, at the bar getting a glass of wine, choosing a special from the smudged special board or powdering her nose.