The box in the loft, a shoe box, green, Clarks, one of many boxes stored there. I lift it down; it has your name on it. Laura. All the boxes are labelled. I’m like that. Organised. That’s me. No talents. Just a cog in the wheel.
I lift the lid off. A tiny pink satin ballet shoe sits on top. I smile the ballet shoe is hardly worn, the ballet lessons didn’t last long. No talent. No aptitude. Underneath, is the Grade 1 certificate for music, it got tricky after that. No talent. I scan an old school report, Year 9. An average girl, it said. When you left school you went to work in the local hospital as a receptionist. I look at a photo of you, aged twenty-three. You were just like me. Pear shaped, brown hair, round face. Unremarkable. An unremarkable girl.
On the day of your funeral. The church was full to bursting and they just kept on coming. Each, all of them had a good word to say about you. Tears flowed freely. I heard how you helped people, how kind you were. In a small but vital way you touched the lives of so many. I saw the posts on facebook and the messages attached to the flowers. They echoed that you were there for them and how you made everyone feel special. Five years on and I’m still stopped in the street. They say how much they miss you. You were so popular, so special Laura and I too am special because I am your mother.
I feel a hand touch my shoulder. I can’t see you but I know you’re there, helping me to bear my sorrow.
I put the lid on the box.