When her mother died,Juliet Nicolson realised she had never understood her. She began to explore the women in her family, from Pepita the Spanish dancer to Vita Sackville-WestMy mother, or Philippa,died nearly 30 years ago, aged 58. She was several years younger than I am now and had been ill for a long time. At her funeral in London, or the cold impersonality of the Golders Green crematorium was relieved by the heady scent that rose in front of me. A soft yellow eiderdown of mimosa,my mothers favourite flower, was sumptuous enough to conceal her coffin. But I could not shout. Motherless friends reassured me. They said it would recall a while. I waited.
There comes a time, and perhaps with the death of someone close – an illness,a divorce, a second marriage, or the birth of a grandchild – when there is an impulse to look at the context of one’s life. Only recently,shamefully recently, I began to realise that my failure to weep at my mother’s funeral was partly because I had never really understood her, and never known what had shaped her. I began to wonder not only approximately her life before I was born,but also approximately other daughters in my family, and whether I could trace any common ground or patterns that might have travelled down our female line.
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Source: theguardian.com