Matriarch of Ferndale

On Monday, my friends, family and neighbours brought my mother’s best friend to the church for her last ever mass in Dublin. They have been friends since my mother and father moved into the house beside her 51 years ago. Her practical no-nonsense approach found a kindred spirit in my mother.

In the church with my parents I felt a sense of sadness but not the ache I had expected. I never noticed the tiny trail of tears running down my face until I felt my coat wet around the collar. I could not bear to look at my mother and see the sadness and loneliness I saw in her face on Saturday when we went in to say goodbye. Then my heart had fractured as my mother told me she had to say “Good night to Mary”. At 92 Mary had what people termed as a “good innings” but that does not soften the blow or lessen the loss. Sitting in the kitchen later drinking tea and eating lemon drizzle cake my eyes wandered to the shelf and the pot where the spare key to our house had stayed for all my life. Like Mary it too was gone –it’s always the small things that push you over the edge. We talked about how as a child one of Mary’s children called to my mother’s house to see if his mother was there. Pretending my mother told him “no”, where upon she was royally greeted with tears and she quickly told the truth. We all laughed but I stayed quiet, because that child was often me. I would arrive home from school and if my mother was not at home she was in Mary’s. I would call into Mary to see where my mother was and despite my mother’s best efforts to send me home, I would sit on the stool at the kitchen table and listen to their light-hearted conversation. They righted all wrongs at that table with kindness, pragmatism and the knowledge that only those who see clearly have.

On Monday another piece was chipped away by my mother’s sadness and uncertainness of what she could do at the funeral. During the mass, she dabbed her two eyes gently and discretely, she is not a crier, silence is her way. Just as I thought I was safe and that the tears would not envelop me, Mary’s eldest son spoke about his mother. He had her to a “T” and as he concluded he said how much she would be missed by her family, friends and neighbours and soul mate in number one; my mother. I now understand what a sucker punch is, I never got it before, but I felt my whole being crumple, the sadness that surrounded me was palpable to the point where what can only be described as a groan escaped my lips. It was not only the kindness of the words but also the realisation of the fact that my mother had lost her best friend, someone who could never be replaced.

When the mass ended my mother was reluctant to leave before her friend made her final journey home to Roscommon. She held my hand so tight I felt like I was a small child all over again, being protected by my mother from the sadness that enveloped her. Each of her friend’s children came to her and kissed her goodbye, each knowing that it would be a long time if ever they saw my mother again. Time passes and we forget people, lives take over and we neglect those that once meant so much.

A number of things came to my mind over the past two days. One is the love I have for my parents and the realisation that I might not have much more time with them and as such I need to tell them I love them and spend as much time with them as possible. The second is the value of friendship, as girls around the world forget their friends when boys arrive on the scene, I now more than ever, see the true value of a good, old friend. They know you, understand what you are saying, can see though you when times are tough, they just get it. You can laugh with them about things it’s not possible to laugh about with your partner; they finish your thoughts and sentences. Real friendships are a rare and valuable commodity, you can’t buy them; you can only make them. They are a fragile thing easily damaged but also as strong as an oak tree if you nourish, protect and respect them. You don’t need lots of friends, you just need a few where mutual respect is core and love flourishes as friendship grows.

Yesterday Mary went home, back to Roscommon, just as she had wanted to do for the past few weeks. In her death she was as practical as she had lived her life. No tears or sorrowful mysteries, remembrance, kindness and practicality were the messages left behind. The matriarch of Ferndale left her mark on all who had the good fortune to know her; she will be missed by many, but none more than my mother.