It’s been over six months since my mum died and I’ve forgotten what her voice sounds like.
And if you knew my mum, you’d also know how ironic this is, because she liked to talk a lot - all the time!
I can probably remember my dad’s voice more clearly, especially when he used to call me Suz - the affectionate, shortened version of my full name Suzanne he preferred to use when I was older. He always found it awkward calling me Sue like my friends did. That name was reserved for his much-loved aunt.
I last heard dad’s voice in real life over 17 years ago. However, I had kept an answerphone message he’d recorded only a few days before he died. I replayed it over and over for months on end before finally (and probably regrettably) deleting it.
And looking across from where I’m sitting now, I can see the hundreds of photos I recently retrieved from my parents’ house but have yet to sort.
It’s a huge task I keep putting off but there’s no way I’m getting rid of any of them. I’m just grateful for such precious reminders of my childhood and family history.
We Will Remember
It makes me wonder what people did in the days before photos.
How did they remember their loved ones?
It’s a timely reminder for us all to get in front of the camera now and again – more for our loved ones’ sake rather than our own.
One of the few times I happily posed in front of the camera was at my wedding. And the only regret from that wonderful day is that I didn’t have an official photo taken of just mum and me.
In a champagne-fuelled whirlwind, we were coaxed into poses by a laid-back photographer, who made up for his lack of organisation with bucket loads of charming smiles and cheesy jokes.
It was only when flicking through our treasured photo album afterwards, I discovered my omission. I often wonder when mum noticed and if it made her sad.
If it did, she never mentioned it.
A Legacy of Words
Maybe this is why people like me feel compelled to write and leave words as our legacy. Even if not on a heavenly inspired mission to become a published author, many of us feel the urge to jot down our thoughts and memories in diaries, journals and letters. Perhaps unwittingly leaving them for future generations to discover.
And what a joy it can be to find them.
When sorting through mum’s possessions after she died, we marvelled at the many letters she’d kept over the years. Some may call it hoarding. I prefer the safeguarding of extraordinary life stories.
There were the love letters my dad had written to her when working away from home, soon after they’d married in the 1960s. He’d also kept a heart-breaking postcard from when he was ten years old, sent to him by his own dad who died only a few months later. There were also letters delivered across the South Atlantic Ocean from St Helena - one of the world’s most remote islands and where my mum’s mum grew up. Moving to England at the end of World War Two after marrying my grandad, my nan’s family were eagerly checking in to see if she was okay.
My own writing journey has even inspired one of my friends to leave letters for her family, to document previously untold but remarkable stories. And this is why I included excerpts from my grandad’s diaries in my own book.
Detailing his quite unbelievable adventures during years of travelling across the Middle East in World War Two, these tales could almost provide the inspiration for a film script.
And I often wonder if my grandad, whom I’ve never met, is looking proudly down on me now. I think he also dreamt of becoming a writer. His dream was tragically cut short when he died at only 36 years of age.
Ordinary People
I almost gave up on my dream of becoming an author a few years ago too.
Starting to believe I hadn’t led an extraordinary life worthy of being in a book, and taking to heart other people’s opinions, I almost stopped writing Dream Catcher before I’d even finished it.
A published author, who writes fiction and obviously abhors any other genre, publicly ridiculed the memoirs written by ordinary people.
Scoffing at those of us who think we’re extra special, and foolish enough to believe anyone else would want to read a book about ourselves, my cheeks burnt in shame as this author’s scornful words hacked away at my faltering self-belief.
I wanted to give up there and then.
“It’s okay,” I wanted to shout at everyone I’d told about my book. “I’m only joking! Of course I’m not going to write thousands of words just about me.”
But I’m glad I didn’t.
Instead I thought about the books I’ve always loved to read. I enjoy nothing more than hearing about other people’s life stories – especially if they’re not famous. And it’s so cathartic to watch a film or a TV series based on real life.
For I truly believe as ordinary people, we all have extraordinary stories to tell, and should celebrate and share them if we so wish.
Our lived experiences can become our expertise and by sharing them with others, it’s not egotistical or spotlight grabbing. (Although a Dolly Parton quote does spring to mind. She said if you don’t toot your own horn from time to time, no one will ever hear you coming!)
No. I believe wanting to share our stories is more of a desire to reach out for one another, forging a connection with those who may be able to see themselves in our lived experiences. And if they can, it almost reassures us we’re not alone in this weird and wonderfully complex thing we call life.
Not Alone
And I know I’m not alone now.
Although I can no longer remember what my mum’s voice sounds like, I realise it’s her words and actions that have left a more loving imprint on my heart and mind.
Smiling now as I’m looking around my lounge, I can see the many inspiring mementos she bought in recent years, encouraging me on this book writing adventure.
Dream Big. Work Hard. Make it happen.
Trust and believe.
You are amazing.
These are the words that have almost become her rallying cry to me from beyond the grave.
“You can do this,” she told me back in 2023, after hearing a few people had ridiculed me for wanting to write a book about myself. “Don’t give up. Promise me you’ll prove them wrong,” my mum had almost demanded.
And although I may have forgotten the sound of her voice, I know, especially as a writer, I will always remember the words she spoke to me in the memories she has left behind.