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My mum is dead. That is absolutely certain. I saw her body in the coffin. Like a waxwork it was. It wasn’t her. It was like an empty shell. She’d gone and she was never coming back. I saw the lid closed down. I saw the coffin get lowered into the grave. And I saw it the next day when the gravediggers had put all the earth back in and it was a piece of ground again, only this time with a coffin-sized mound of earth lying on top. No headstone that day. We didn’t know what to put on it. But it has one now.
She was dead and she was buried. That was a year ago.
But I saw her yesterday.
I was touching the soft wooden curves on Dad’s sculpture he made. The Hug it’s called: the three of us sitting with our arms wrapped around each other. I don’t think we ever once sat like that for real, hugging like that, exquisitely rounded, our arms all in tune, but it’s a perfect statement for how we were as a family, always supporting each other, always together, always looking out for each other.
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