Yvette Clarke Quotes

Nobody knows what happens to us when we die, Kitty, which is good, in a way, as it can be anything I want it to be in my mind. I like to think that sometimes I’ll be able to look down and see you.

Imogen and I have always had advanced vocabularies, but we learned so many new words over the last twelve months. Words that no child should ever have to learn, not in the way that we did, when they’re happening to someone you love more than anything. Words like palliative care, metastasize, malignant, and pleural effusion; the vocabulary of cancer became part of our lives.

My goal is to make you smile, not shed a tear. Crying is fine though, in fact, the therapist in me would say that doing both is the healthiest response. The mum in me just wants the smiles.

Someone at the hospice told me that grief is like glitter,” Gran says. “If you throw a handful of glitter in the air, even if you try your very best to clean it up, you’ll never get it all. I think that’s true. I keep finding glitter tucked into unexpected corners. I suppose it will always be there.

I would be scared and furious. Why wasn’t Mum angrier, Sam? Gran’s the only one apart from me who gets mad about it. Sometimes when Gran talks about the cancer, I see her clench her fists until her knuckles turn white.

Kitty, I talked to your dad and told him I thought it was time we got you a bra.” She looks down at my flat-as-a-pancake chest. “There’s not much going on at the moment, but it’s essential to have a supportive bra while things are developing. Anyway, he didn’t seem keen to discuss it but did agree that I could bring you shopping. You never know, you might suddenly blossom like I did, overnight. By the way, feel free to come to me when you get your period. I know your mum was always very open with you girls about puberty. I’m not a trained professional like her, but I am a graduate of the university of life.

Kitty, sometimes in order to move forward, we need to look back,

Right, I wonder where the smallest bras would be.” “They call them training bras in America,” I giggle. “Like your boobs are getting ready for an Olympic event.” “Do they really? The things they say over there. We just call them small.

Sam always says death, cancer, terminal, and other words that most people try to avoid using in front of me. He says it’s important to give things their proper names. I suppose not using scary words is as pointless as trying to avoid saying Voldemort’s name. It doesn’t protect you from anything.

Gwen bustles me into the changing room, measures me in a brisk and businesslike way, and ceremonially pronounces me a twenty-eight A. It’s like the sorting hat in Harry Potter placing you in Hufflepuff because to be in Gryffindor you’d need to be a thirty-four B.

My sweet Kitty, it’s time that you sleep tight Wrapped in lots of love just like every single night So lovely Kitty, have the sweetest dreams Wake up in the morning to the golden sunbeams Until then Kitty, close your pretty eyes I’ll see you in the morning under bright blue skies

There’ll be times when you wish everything could stay the same, and other times when you pray for everything to be different. The only sure thing in life is change, so you should try to embrace it.

Mum also left a pile of letters in thick cream envelopes for Imogen and me to read on our next three birthdays. The envelopes are decorated with drawings of flowers, love hearts, and sunshines, with our name and age written in the middle in Mum’s curly handwriting. Three letters just aren’t enough. I’ll only be thirteen when I get the last one. Why did Mum think it was okay to stop the letters then? What about when I’m eighteen, or twenty-five, thirty-seven, fifty-two, or even seventy? Some people still get letters from their mums at that age. When Dad showed us the six envelopes, I asked him why there were only three each. He put his head in his hands and spoke so quietly that I could barely make out the words. “She had to stop writing, love. There was no more time.

Laura asked me to read this poem to you today. As you know, she loved poetry, and when she found this piece she knew right away it was what she wanted to share with all of you: “I give you this one thought to keep. I am with you still. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on the snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awake in the morning’s hush, I am the swift, uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night Do not think of me as gone. I am with you still in each new dawn.

Sam gave me a copy of The Child’s Guide to Losing a Parent, which says that I may be about to enter the rage stage. I’m quite looking forward to it. Having license to smash plates, scream, shout, and be rude to people while they have to “give me space to grieve” sounds most satisfying. I can clearly see in my mind a red-faced howling girl grabbing crockery from the shelves and hurling it across the room.

Sam told me in one of our early sessions, when Mum was still alive, that he considers himself to be a companion to me in my pain. That he is there to bear witness to it without trying to take it away or to protect me from the truth of what will be lost.

Does it make a difference to you, Kitty, what type of cancer your mum had, I mean?” “Yes, it does, actually.” “Why?” “When I tell people that Mum had lung cancer, they ask me if she smoked, like it matters. When I say that she never did, they look surprised and say, what bad luck, as if otherwise it was partly her fault.

Did you just say you’d get married again? Mum only died ten weeks ago. It’s disgusting!” she said. “Girls, girls, calm down!” Dad held his hands up as if he was trying to tame a pair of wild ponies. “Imogen, what on earth are you talking about?” “Kitty heard you. She was listening at the kitchen door just now.” “Kitty, love, you really have to stop listening at doors,” Dad sighed. “We’ve talked about this before. It can cause all sorts of misunderstandings and hurt feelings. Yes, Dominic did ask me if I might ever get married again, and I told him that I couldn’t imagine it, but I also can’t envisage myself being on my own for the rest of my life. I miss your mum every single minute of every day.

I sometimes think the girls wish,” Dad continued in a shaky voice, “I mean, I know they do, they wish they still had their mum, and that it was me who had died. It would have been easier for everyone.” “No, Rob! You mustn’t ever think that. The girls love you. They love you and Laura. They don’t want you or her. They want both of you.