My mother’s
ashes are scattered near the lighthouse on the hill at the edge of my
world. I think of her there sometimes,
as I am falling asleep, or just waking up.
Her strong elephant legs or her firm hands that made the lightest
pastry, now as a fine dust that covers the bramble bushes in that quiet
place. The waves swish over the rocks
there, the peregrine falcons glide overhead, and the nibbled grass waits for the
odd picnicker, but people rarely go there, it is a wonderfully forgotten
place. Ships far out at sea feel
comforted by the flashing light of the white lighthouse, and the shipwrecks lie
on the ocean bed with their cargoes of rum, coconut and turtles all
disintegrated. The wind exhales and there
is no sound of traffic. My mother is
there for eternity and I will go and pick purple blackberries at the end of
August to make sweet syrupy jam like she used to.