Dusk On The South Wall

My mother died last month, on February 16. Today would have been her 94th birthday. She was buried in Deansgrange, in a space reserved in her parents' grave. My wife laid some flowers on what is still a raised mound of raw clods. We plan to get mum's name carved on the stone before the anniversary of her death, or her next birthday.

Deanesgrange isn't a particularly pretty cemetery but I like it; I like the way it is laid like a huge stony quilt in the heart of the suburbs. Apart from a gentle incline (like a grey wave), the impression is mainly of flatness, an ultra-low-rise extension to the houses (roofs, satellite dishes, flouncing washing...) which surround it. But there are trees, a grove of yews (and other species) which acts as a kind of break of separation of what might otherwise be rather monotonous. And there is plenty of birdsong.

I felt less sad than I'd expected, especially since mum's death had hit me quite hard, far more physical than I'd been prepared for. But mum wasn't a person to visit cemeteries. She probably felt about them the way she felt about priests in her last years (when asked if she wanted a priest to visit her she politely refused): too morbid, too close to the bone.

Before going home to tea and a birthday cake in her honour, I took a drive alone out to the docklands, not sure exactly where I'd end up. But I think part of me had already decided on this location, the beginning of the Great South Wall. A good place to park and think, which is what I did. My mother liked seascapes, probably her favourite subject to paint. And her death hit me there, looking out at the mountains, the lights of seaside suburban towns prickling the grey-purple dusk. Or, to the left, Howth Head capped in cloud, a reflective lighthouse dipping its eerie mint green wand.