One afternoon I cuddled up to what was left of her and cried like a child. She tried to cradle me like a mother.
- Don't cry, darling. It will be alright.
- What if your pain is from cancer?
- Well then I’ll die from cancer.
- But you might need serious pain medication.
- No more pills.
Sometimes, for a few days or weeks she’d forget not to eat and drink, put on a few grams and get back to making political predictions:
That Boris Johnson, he’ll be next Prime Minister, mark my words.
To transgenderise Roth writing about his father:
A year on, I'm reconciled to the choices Myra made. And I've forgiven myself for not being as forebearing as I might have.
I find myself standing at the Myra-bed having conversations with her:
— You were right about that clematis – it wasn’t dead. And would you believe, the lily-of-the -valley are already full of flowers? Fragrant little bells.
— Myra Bells. (Bell was her maiden name.)
— I’m sorry I argued about making this flower bed, Mum. It’s lovely now. A special place to stand and chat to you.
— Hmpf. (She wasn’t above an ‘I-told-you-so’.)
— By the way, that camellia you rescued has more flowers on it this year than ever before. Whatever did you feed it?
— TLC, love.