Finally Laid to Rest

Though my boyfriend died in March 2024, it wasn’t until last Friday that we laid his cremains to their final resting place. The delay wasn’t my choice; I’m not responsible for his estate. As Zach said to me about two weeks before he died, “In the eyes of the law, we’re strangers.”

Zach’s mother, Susan, died in November 2025 after an eight-year diagnosis of Parkinson’s, which progressed to Parkinson’s dementia. Her memorial was on Friday. Susan’s death was the catalyst for the Ritter family trust executor to inter Zach’s ashes. He and his parents' cremains were interred together after Susan's service, in a niche at Pierce Brothers Westwood Village Memorial Park in Los Angeles.

Across the way from Zach’s now permanent “home” is Marilyn Monroe’s crypt. He and I visited it together a few years ago. An adjacent neighbor to the Ritter family's niche is that of a Japanese woman who lived to 105. Her plaque lists the secret to her longevity: sweet potato, and a couple of other tips I can’t remember.

I ate sweet potato for dinner that night.

Zach’s death makes me think of the saying, the good die young. But there are still plenty of us here who could qualify as good. Why Zach left us at 34, and the Japanese woman lived three times that long, is a mystery that I suspect we'll never know the answer.

Where I once looked across at Zach at restaurant tables—we dined out often, spent thousands wining and dining—I’m now mostly confined to the cheap, but good, grocer Trader Joe’s, budgeting out of frugal necessity. Expensive dinners out are now long gone. The home I thought I’d be sharing with Zach has become a money pit I’m trying to survive alone. I closed on it two weeks after Zach’s sudden death, unable to walk away without forfeiting a $22,000 earnest deposit. At the time, I hoped Zach would come and live with me there and help shoulder some of the costs. But it was never meant to be.

Instead of spending time with my “living, breathing organism,” as I used to affectionately call him, I will now spend what physical time I can with Zach sitting on a stoop opposite his plaque in a cemetery.

On Sunday during my visit (following Friday's service), a group of Armenians brought flowers to a nearby grave. One man posed for a photo beside the woman’s headstone; I assumed he was her husband. Later, after they moved on, I went to look. It was the grave of a famous singer of over four decades. I texted Zach’s cousin, his next of kin, to tell her the Ritter family were resting near a Persian diva, and that they’d never be short of residual social company from her throng of visiting fans.

After Susan’s memorial service on Friday—Ben Marcus, one of Zach’s childhood friends, noticed that the Ritter family niche was near the grave of Ray Bradbury, the science fiction author. “Zach would like that,” he said. 

At the same time, Zach’s friend Josh poured the remainder of his beer into the dirt opposite their niche. What is he doing? I thought, until he said, “Pouring one out for you, Zach.”

Zach loved to drink. To excess, some would say. He would have liked Josh's gesture.

Before visiting the cemetery on Sunday, I dropped in to see our friend [Michael] Harrington at his home in West Hollywood. I was talking about my intention to visit Zach that afternoon when my phone flashed 11:11.

“Zach says hi, Harrington,” I said. "He's letting us know he's with us, and knows we're talking about him." Zach liked Harrington alot. It’s my belief that Zach sends me 1:11 and 11:11 often. For those of us who believe it, those numbers are spiritual signals.

Zach and I once read from my late paternal grandmother’s Shakespeare book to my grandparents' gravesite during a visit to my hometown of Adelaide, Australia (first two pictures below).

Now I was reading Zach’s own book—Bell Street Burning—the one he labored over for six years and never lived to see published—to him and his parents at his gravesite.

Photos:

1. The plaques for Zach's parents, Jim and Susan, and Zach.

2. One of the Ritter family's cemetery neighbors is the gravesite of a famous Persian singer

3. Family and friends gather around for the internment of the Ritter family's cremains

4. Zach's urn. His cousin, Eli, was his next of kin and kept Zach's urn in her home until Friday. I borrowed it a couple of months ago to have with me for the weekend!

5. Zach reading from my paternal grandmother's book of Shakespeare at my grandpa and grandma's gravesite in Adelaide, Australia (September 2023).

6. I read to them too. ^^

7. Zach's friend Aatif kindly took it upon himself to get Zach's book, Bell Street Burning, published posthumously. Here it sits among other titles on a bookstore bookshelf in Culver City. I read from it to the Ritter family on Sunday.

My Psychologist Died and I’m Sad About It

When Zach died, I joined a Facebook group called Healing After Suicide Loss for Women. The moderator of the group, Jayne Madigan, hosts monthly zoom calls and would say (about our loss), “Year two is harder than the first.”

As I’ve written in earlier posts, Zach’s suicide wasn’t a complete shock to me. I discovered he had been suicidal before he acted on those thoughts. Added to this, he would often vocalize his distress in his last few months, in his own poetic shorthand announcing, “doom, doom, doom.” I knew he struggled. The best I could summon in those moments was a kind of weary optimism trying to bring him back from those bleak corners he had backed himself into: “It’s not all doom – you’ll be fine, we’ll work it out together…don’t be like that.” I hoped my sentiment was true.

I’m mindful to keep on top of my physical health, and as such I never truly absorbed that another would want to harm their own body. But that’s a whole other article. 

What I’m attempting to get to here is -- I didn’t quite believe year two would be harder than year one. Year one was awful – I’ve written about that – but I felt a lot stronger than the others on the group call who had readily agreed with Jayne, “yes, year two is worse.” Now we're in year two, and hmm - I’ve met the thud that comes along with it.

This whole nightmare has been especially hard because Zach was so meaningful to me. He was my best friend, my lover and my “yes” person. That kind of presence is rare – especially as one gets older, sinks into their usual routines, and spends the majority of their time alone and at home. Whatever energy I do have outside my work, I’ll mostly spend on life matters such as running household chores. The things I once loved and explored fervently in my 20s, such as music, theatre, art and dance – have quietly slipped away, gathering dust on the shelves of my life. They once filled the spaces around me, but now, without Zach with whom I had a brief renaissance enjoying such things again, they feel distant, less accessible and inviting.

I finally decided to reach out to someone who has helped me in times of suffering – my longtime therapist in Melbourne, who I’ve seen on and off for years; Peter Ross. I wanted to reconnect, to lean again on his wisdom and calm and to talk to someone who already knew my past.

I first saw Peter in 2000. He was about 50 then and I was 26. My seeking Peter out at that time was triggered by my dad meeting his now wife. Peter helped me sort through the unresolved grief of losing my mother to breast cancer and helped unpack the complicated emotions that came with my father’s new relationship and how that impacted my relationship with my dad.

Last week, I sent Peter an email, hoping to reconnect. It’d been five years since I’d last reached out. In 2020, I’d connected with him to discuss matters around my relationship with Zach. This time around I knew Peter would be saddened to hear what had come of our relationship; but I also knew he’d have comforting things to say. I’d been thinking about connecting with Peter for a few months, especially as the grief around losing Zach has lingered. When Peter didn’t respond overnight (respecting the time difference between Melbourne and LA), I had a small suspicion that perhaps he’d died. A quick search online, “Peter Ross obituary Melbourne” confirmed what I’d feared: yes - Peter had passed away, last year (November ‘24) quite unexpectedly after a brief illness at 75 years of age.

Over the years, Peter was a quiet, reassuring presence -- in person, and later through Skype calls, across continents and time zones. Peter had been my therapist through so many iterations of my life – I had sought sessions with him in person in Melbourne, and over skype in Darwin, Sydney, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. He was an unassuming constant through life’s ups and downs, and someone who held space for me without judgment. 

With Peter’s death I’m experiencing the loss of someone who took time to listen, who bore witness to my private history and helped shape how I was able to move forward and make sense of the world today. Peter’s death has left a hollow, and now I’m experiencing a double bereavement of sorts. Another piece of grief added to my already mourning Zach.

The following prayer was read out during Peter’s service (the service I found and watched online). I didn’t have a copy of the funeral program so I’m not sure where this prayer is from - but ChatGPT identifies it from “…the Bahá’í Faith or inspired by Sufi or Gnostic thought. It also echoes sentiments found in Christian mysticism and some writings from the early 20th century that sought to bridge spiritualism with faith traditions.”

Untitled

Mourn not over the death of your beloved
Call not back the traveler who is on his journey toward his goal,
for ye know not what he seeketh

You are on earth – and now he is in heaven

By weeping for the dead,
you will make sad the soul who cannot return to earth
By wishing to communicate with him,
you do but distress him

He is happy in the place at which he has arrived

By wanting to go to him,
you do not help him
Your life’s purpose still keepeth you on earth

No creature that has ever been born
has belonged in reality to any other
Every soul is the beloved of God
Doth not God love as we human beings cannot?

Death, therefore, doth but unite man with God –
for whom doth his soul in truth belong
To Him, in the end, is its return
sooner or later

Every death is a veil,
behind which is hidden life
beyond the comprehension of man on earth

If you knew the freedom of that world,
how sad hearts are unburdened of their load –
if you knew how the sick are cured,
how the wounded are healed,
and what freedom the soul experiences
as it goes further from this earthly life of limitations –

You would no longer mourn those who have passed,
but pray for their happiness in their future journey
and for the peace of their soul

Amen

LA Is Burning, but Not All of It

The LA fires were not on my radar until I logged into Facebook from my hotel room at the Plaza in downtown Las Vegas earlier this week. I was in town for the consumer electronics show (CES), the annual tech conference that attracts thousands of local, national and international attendees. My West Hollywood friend Bill's post caught my attention: he lives in a beautiful mansion in the Hollywood Hills and was sharing personal updates about the LA Fire and his surrounds.

It wasn’t long before messages started trickling in—my work, friends and acquaintances reaching out to check if I was okay. Fortunately the fires weren’t near my neighborhood in East Hollywood, however it was unsettling to piece together how quickly they had started and were spreading. A quick text into my LA neighbor confirmed that our homes were not, and unlikely to be, in danger. But the overwhelm and emotional ripple effects began to unfold.

My late bf, Zach’s former boss, a Judge at the Santa Monica Law Courts, seemed to confirm via text that she'd lost her home in the Pacific Palisades, "the whole neighborhood is gone."  Zach's friends who had recently bought a new home in Altadena close to Morgan's work at the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory had to evacuate, finding refuge with friends. Even Harrington, who lives in West Hollywood, packed up and left with two friends (also living in West Hollywood) and his little dog Diesel for the night in San Diego when he had an order to evacuate. These connections gave the fires a personal weight, though my day-to-day life remained mostly untouched as I continued to battle the crowds at CES.

I flew back into Burbank Airport on Thursday night after my first flight was canceled (unsure why - as others were landing in Burbank). As soon as I stepped off the plane, the smell of smoke hit me—the air quality was noticeably different from Vegas. The taxi ride was swift and quick; the highway was largely empty around 9pm, a welcome and rare incidence. I could smell the smoke inside my home -- the sensory reminder of what’s happening miles away. 

Los Angeles County is vast and geographically dispersed, something that might not be immediately obvious to those unfamiliar with the area. The phrase “LA is burning” paints a vivid picture, but the reality is more complex. While some neighborhoods (they call them neighborhoods here, not suburbs like we do in Oz) are grappling with evacuation orders and destruction, other parts of the city feel untouched, like it’s just another week. The contrast is evident in this situation, but it’s also emblematic of how this city works—layered, sprawling, and full of parallel lives.

The fires have stirred plenty of conversations about responsibility and readiness, alongside the inevitable swirl of conspiracy theories about how they started. But for the people who’ve lost their homes, the focus is clear: What happens now? How do you rebuild after everything has been reduced to ash? There will inevitably be a lot of red tape in this process; and ripple effect for me, even though I was not directly impacted. Whether it’s housing markets, infrastructure strains, rising insurance premiums, or shifts in how we live alongside wildfire risks, I’m sure to feel those reverberations so long as I live in this city.

As a homeowner, this tragedy does question the notion of 'stability'. I’ve been fortunate that my home still stands this time, but tomorrow? The unpredictability of fires in Southern California (and elsewhere, such as my home country) and the precarious nature of life itself, serves as a constant undercurrent of unease. Naturally, Zach's untimely death proved how rapidly things can spiral and turn on a dime. 

One moment, you’re in Vegas marveling at the future of technology; the next, you’re bracing for news of how close disaster has come to your doorstep. With the LA fires we're witnessing how fleeting comfort can be. If nothing else, this week has driven home the importance of vigilance and safety; and for the parts of life that remain steady amid chaos.

One thing I know for sure. Zach would have had plenty to say about it. As an LA native, he was born and bred in this city. He loved it. And his community was on the West side (earlier note about his boss losing her home in the Pacific Palisades). I miss this about him. Our discourse, his local knowledge, and intellectual integrity. And I'm reminded that while the fires rage on in this city, so does my grief and mourning for the man who kept me here. 

Disclaimer -- unlike my usual modus operandi where I write all my blog content, the above post was initally generated from ChatGPT. I typed in a series of prompts and information, asked it to write in my usual blog post style, then spent a good time editing the generated result. 

2024

Since I now have American and Australian readers - I preface this blog post by saying it has been written in British English.

2024 - what a year, one of the most momentous of my life. Why I say “one of the most” – 1996 is up there. That’s the year my mum died; finally succumbing to breast cancer. She was diagnosed at 42 years old and battled it for 10 years. Knowing your mother has cancer all throughout one’s teenage years and losing her at the tender age of 21 is its whole other story. Life changing and in many respects cruelly so.  

2024 – highs and lows culminating in a year of resilience. As follows some of the moments that stand out.

—

Let’s start with the most prominent event and the not so Elephant in the Room. I say “not so” because we were hit with it and didn’t shy away from talking about it. My boyfriend Zach’s death by suicide was devastating. People who hadn’t even met him: work colleagues, old school friends; were rattled by the loss. Thank-you to everyone in my orbit for staying close or simply giving a like or commenting on my facebook posts – the fact you’re reading this now. I’ve seen you there and appreciate it.

—

I became a first time home owner. Ironically – because people say home ownership is preferable to renting – I can’t say I’m especially glad I did. Now that I’m in it, I’m meeting the myriad expenses and issues that come with responsible home ownership. Unfortunately the discretionary $$ I used to spend on travel, dining, and clothes now goes on house fixes and furnishings. Within nine months of ownership I've paid thousands to fix foundational issues, dry rot, the electrical and sewer system, and several other things the seller happily left me to deal with. Added to this and arguably the most irritating of all – I don’t have a set place to park my car. Street parking only. That’s a tough proposition anywhere in LA. The dust, foliage and bird droppings that collect on my car out on the street is the gift that keeps on giving! The bright side is no other drivers have yet to clip me in the tight parking situation. Things could be worse.

Having said this I know I’m lucky to be in a position where I was able to buy. I’ve made it a home and hosted a few good gatherings!

—

A clear winner this year was developing my local friendships in LA. After Zach died I threw myself into the church community for solace and healing which paved the way to a friendship with the Church Priest. Originally from Wales, Father Ian Elliot Davies has presided over St Thomas the Apostle Hollywood for 22 years now and has qualities that remind me of Zach. Super sharp (Cambridge University alum), very well read - always having a book to hand me, kind and witty. Father Ian has helped me a lot. My Dad used to quip, “Zach knows a lot of things about a lot of things.” So does Father Ian.

Then there’s my friend and (now former) neighbour Harrington. The one who came with me when I suspected Zach had done what he did. Harrington and I braced ourselves for the news waiting outside Zach’s apartment as the two policemen went in. After which Harrington showed up every day at my apartment door to lend his support. Harrington’s popularity brings a whole coterie of friends and acquaintances which means I’ve had a social year! The universe really does open up when you need it to. 

Of course there are many other people who've been there for me in 2024. Including Zach's friends, my work colleagues, American and Australian friends, and my family. Most of you will be reading this now. 

—

Amid all the calamity of losing one’s beloved, I turned 50 this year. Can’t stop that clock! It was time to throw a party. As my old university pal Linda said, “you hosted your own wedding.” She was right. I decided to host a 50th birthday celebration in Melbourne with all the fanfare of the wedding I am yet to have. It was great. My Dad, brother, and friend Renato - who had his own wedding in Bologna, Italy in September, which I attended - gave speeches. Friends from as far back as 30 years came – a handful travelling from interstate, including my cousins Penelope and Katy with their partners, and my niece, Madison, and nephew, Tom. Of course there were people invited who couldn’t make it. They’ll have to wait for the wedding…or (probably more likely) another milestone birthday, God willing.

—

Despite the ravages grief can do to one’s health - mine seemed pretty much on track this year. I kept on top of breast cancer detection appointments and otherwise felt like I was in good shape. That is until I visited the dentist last week. My dental hygienist said it was time for a yearly blood pressure test – and lo and behold – I received a high blood pressure reading (140/70 (normal is 120/80)). This is the first time I recall this happening – previously I was led to believe I had low blood pressure. Side note – did you know that high blood pressure is referred to as hypertension and nearly 50% of adult Americans have it but don’t realise they have it because there’s no real noticeable side effects? That’s why they call hypertension the “silent killer” because it's linked to heart disease which is the leading cause of death in America. 

The news jolted me back to my blood work result two years ago. The Doctor reported, “your cholesterol level is slightly elevated.” Sadly, I didn’t do much about it then (I’m prone to applying lashings of butter on my morning toast and eat a lot of carbs.) But heart disease runs on my father’s side. My 82 year old father had a triple heart bypass at 49 and now wears a pacemaker. His own father died from a heart attack at 69. Alas, now it’s time to add heart health as a new year's resolution!

So here we go. The jolt I needed to make some long overdue lifestyle changes. Fingers crossed I’ll be able to fit back into the nice clothes I bought pre-Covid! 

Moving into 2025, I hope I can take a better stock of what I eat and how much soda and alcohol I drink and stick to it. Having said that, entering 2025 will no doubt be more of the same for me – I’ll continue to prioritize my work, keep up the home maintenance, focus on relationships, and carry on grieving Zach’s death. Now a laser sharp focus on health. Oh the joys of ageing. 

Here’s to another year! Happy New Year. 

Photos. Words that resonated today, as seen in the shop Fig in Ojai, California, during a weekend visit: December 29, 2024.

He's gone, so how do I get through this slump?

As I spooned the remainder of my Thai meal into the to-go boxes, I was reminded of the ritual Zach and I underwent after our regular dinners at the LA Times' restaurant critic Jonathan Gold lauded Indian restaurant, Mayura, in Culver City.

We'd inevitably over order and while greedily eating hearty proportions from copious dishes, there was usually leftovers. The waiter would bring the takeout boxes and Zach and I would proceed to fill them as I had done at the Thai restaurant. And yet at the Thai restaurant I was performing the custom alone - without Zach - because there is no more Zach. He self-eradicated himself from this earthly existence. 

In my memory he looms large. He's the last person I think of before lights out and the first on my mind as I wake. Zach and my mother. My mother has always been a daily thought, however the regularity of thinking about her throughout the day, has been ever amplified now that Zach is dead. Because of course, she is dead too. And now these two great loves of mine are together in the ether, out of reach, and yet still very much top of mind.

As the days, weeks and months since Zach's passing move along, I begin to feel there was never going to be another way. And yet terrible guilt persists that I could have done more. Guilt around a loved one's suicide is a common theme, in fact I would say, guilt is a non-negotiable by product for those left behind.

Zach expressed his overwhelm concerning his life situation. In the final weeks he would say and text, "doom, doom, doom" and lament about times gone by, happier times that he was convinced could not be repeated due to his filial responsibilities. Alternatively, some days he would enter my room and declare (paraphrasing), "Today I see light at the end of the tunnel, I don't see it all as doom. There might just be a chance I'll get through this."

His negativity befuddled me. Sure I saw real factors for his woes (most readers know he lost his dad to Parkinson's complications in 2022 and thereafter filled the shoes as primary care taker for his mother, also with Parkinson's, and dementia), but I mostly put the extremity of his distress down to the final months of having a mis-medicated mental illness. He had definitive life stressors, but during this particularly troubling period, he saw mountains in issues and problems where I saw molehills.

On one hand he fessed up to having suicidal thoughts, something I only really learned in February (he died in March) and on the other hand he said, "I've come to realize, suicide is not an option," which gave me hope that we would both be spared that grisly outcome. 

However, towards the end, he was spiraling so fast into paranoias that were devastating and profound, it had us all spinning. He'd dug himself deep in a ditch. I shared in his fear that he might not be able to turn his life around especially as he was reluctant to take drastic intervention towards recovery. 

We know the final outcome. I've lost my lover and best friend. So how do I get through this slump?

--

To quote W. H. Auden, an author Zach admired and had on his bookshelf, and people of my generation will be familiar with these words as the poem Funeral Blues was read in the '90s film, Four Weddings and a Funeral:

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; 
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

A milestone approaches but now it comes to nothing

 

Zach would have turned 35 on Thursday (13 June). As a couple we had quite a bit staked on this year – 35 signalled D-Day for his marriage proposal. Not necessarily the actual day, but the two of us had agreed a few years earlier that by 35 he would have lived enough life, enjoyed enough bachelorhood, to make that commitment to me. I wanted to be married. Heck, I’d finally found a man I could spend a lifetime with -- the appeal of wedded bliss. No more searching for a compatible partner, I’d found him, and with Zachary I could rest. 

Two weeks before Zach died he made the observation while sitting on my couch that “we’re strangers in the face of the law.” Unfortunately despite six years of mutual devotion, he did nothing to rectify this situation (I have a will and he was listed as my primary beneficiary) and thus I’ve been denied the privileges that come with holding that legal certificate. 

Michael, a close friend in LA, tells me the riches come not from material possession, but from having known him. Zach led from the heart. We spent almost every moment together on weekends. The quality time we had. The love. I’m grateful for Michael’s wisdom and sense. I carry the truth of it close and draw on its strength in moments of emotional torture. Any person who’s experienced grief will tell you it’s complicated. The days, weeks and months in the aftermath of Zach’s suicide have been no less than gruelling.

I rage at the fact he’s no longer here. We melded so well together - he was my ultimate 'yes' person. I wanted to go to Dear John’s for their gin martini - yes, to have Italian for dinner - yes, watch this old movie - yes, travel to this place - yes. Yes, yes, yes. And not in a doormat kind of way -- in a way that he genuinely wanted to do those things with me. We took pleasure in our being together. Now I think of things to do, but I’ve lost my favourite person to do them with. Instead I still venture out - but alone. A glass of wine at the local bar after work / alone, a Hollywood Bowl concert / alone, to church on Sundays / alone – each time his absence is acutely felt. 

His memory looms large, his person is still adored. I miss him terribly. He was my great love. That he no longer exists is a pain that sticks on my skin 24/7. Most mornings I wake up like I’ve been hit by a bus, to meet another day with the stark realness of his loss. I rail against it - wish it weren’t so, and chastise him aloud for doing it. But it is how it is. Lady Macbeth, “what’s done cannot be undone.”

***

Happy birthday to you my darling. We had so much riding on this one. 

Photo: a typical weekend - stopping by Gjusta for a bite before heading across to work out at Gold's Gym in Venice, California.

The Table

This Mother’s Day will be 27 Mother’s Days without my mum. It’s a widely celebrated day of love and happiness but the occasion stirs up mixed emotions for Motherless daughters. Over the years, my mother’s death has hit me hard in varying ways and I think about her everyday. Things frequently pop up that remind me of her and the strong emotional bond we shared. 

The following is a true tale about an incident that recently happened to me involving my mother. Surprising to involve her because she’s been dead since 1996. Time has marched on, we’re a new millennium (!), and the nuclear family that was has gone its separate ways. My father, brother and I live in different cities and for me, countries. Mum was the glue that kept our family together; without her, we are now seldom in touch. This is the indelible truth that can happen to a family when its pivotal figure dies. And on days like Mother’s Day - when I think of the last Mother’s Day I had with her, which was also spent with my father and brother, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness and nostalgia for the times that have passed along with her.

Sometimes though, I still feel her presence because it was not that long ago that Mum and I ‘reconnected’. One could speculate that she was sending me a sign from the beyond to remind me of an item that had belonged to her, bringing it to my attention because she wanted me to have it, and she wanted to remind my Dad that I should have it.

Discovering the letter

Usually when I return to Melbourne (Australia) from Los Angeles, I’ll make a stop at the Taxibox storage facility to inspect the belongings I’ve been storing there for the past 10 years. Last September, while combing through the storage unit, I dug into an old copper pot that contained letters my mum had sent me when I was a teenager at boarding school. I didn’t have time to re-read them then, so I put them in my handbag for safekeeping to take back to America with me.

A few weeks later, when I was home in Los Angeles, I retrieved one of the letters. Mum had written it in 1988 when I was only 13. In the letter, Mum told me she had bought a dining table with her own money. This was significant because my mother had never worked full time, so saving money required a lot of time and effort. Mum described the table’s uniqueness. She explained that a local steak restaurant in Alice Springs was closing down and had several tables to sell. These tables had been made out of the jarrah wood from the sleepers of The Ghan, a train that runs an epic 2,797 kilometres (1,846 miles) from Adelaide to Darwin in Australia. She had loved the table’s connection to Alice Springs, a small town in Central Australia where my parents had been temporarily based for my father’s work. Mum said she’d paid $3,000 for it but suspected it could be worth as much as $20,000, since the restaurant might have underpriced its value to make a quick sale. The fact she’d included this detail made me smile. Mum was thrifty and I could feel her delight spring from the page in the happy belief that she’d scored herself a deal.

I instantly knew the table Mum described. When my parents moved from Alice Springs to Melbourne in 1990, I left boarding school in Adelaide to join them and start Year 11 as a ‘day girl’. We bought an old Edwardian family home and the table took pride of place in our dining room. It was the room’s centrepiece. 

More than just a table - it was a haven

Mum was a talented cook and my parents would often entertain. Mum would make her signature dinner party dishes: salmon roulade for main course and store-bought brandy snaps filled with brandy whipped cream for dessert. She would prepare the meals in the kitchen and ferry them down the hallway to excitable oohs and aahs from the guests as she placed food on the table. There were many gatherings around the table in the six years we had Mum with us in that home. I celebrated my 18th birthday around the table – school friends sang happy birthday as I blew out 18 candles on the cake Mum had made. There were also quieter, relaxed times that I remember well; Mum and I chatting at the table, with her German Shepherd dog sitting nearby soaking up the warmth from the fireplace, flames and firewood cracking and popping. Occasionally I did my homework there, including a year 12 art project about the musical, The Phantom of the Opera, which I received full marks. When Mum passed away, the table became a makeshift florist display, as we placed the sympathy flowers people had sent on it. 

So while this table has strong connections to my mum and our family, I wonder if it will remain that way? 

You see, my mother left “all remaining possessions” in her will to my dad. As he has since remarried, the table, being “joint-property”, will belong to my dad’s second wife when he passes. Dad says the table will eventually come back to us (my brother, me or my brother’s children) when his wife dies, but Dad’s wife is closer in age to me, than she is to him. I see time bringing its distance, and quite frankly given recent developments, the table will go to anyone other than me. 

After re-reading the letter Mum wrote to 13-year-old me, I asked my father if I could have the table left to me in his will. Dad’s response was he and his wife had already discussed and made his will and the table would be going to her. As far as they are both concerned the case is closed and the decision is just; his wife will get the table and I should be accepting of it. 

I don’t begrudge my dad for having a relationship after my mother, but I do begrudge him for his attitude to this latest turn of events. In my opinion, the table belonged to my mother. It is a family heirloom, and should not be conveniently listed among the “joint-property” that my father and his wife have bought together during their marriage. I believe my mum would have wanted me to have the table once my father passed and it is reasonable for me to be asking for it. Could that be why my mother’s letter showed up after 35 years? Could it be that in the ethereal world she knew what was in place and was nudging me towards a different outcome?

As a result of this incident, my father and I haven’t had any meaningful contact in more than six months. Very sad considering months are like dog years when one is 80. Obviously there are strong emotions on both sides of this issue and I’ve had to face the reality that in this scenario, Dad will have his way. Everyone grieves differently and I accept that my response to Mum’s decades-long absence will be different from others in my family. Unfortunately, our divergent approaches to grieving and ways in which we honour my mother, has frequently put us at odds and led to periods of estrangement, and that brings a whole other layer of grief to deal with. 

In closing, let me return to the supernatural. Over the years my mother has appeared in my dreams. A few years ago, I dreamt the two of us were talking. I was conveying my frustration over an episode of my father’s treatment of me. In my dream, I shared with Mum that Dad had changed dramatically after meeting his wife and this greatly impacted the way he was with me. Only months before Dad met his new partner he had spent a fortune renovating our family home after he and I made a pact to take on the project. Let’s bring the house to its full glory, just as Mum would have wanted was his position. We were doing it as a tribute to her, both united in the project’s undertaking and committed to living in the beautifully renovated house together for years to come. But with his new relationship redirecting his priorities, I was out of the family home within six months and Dad sold the house shortly after.

In dreamform Mum showed little reaction to my comments. (On the contrary, alive Mum would have had an opinion!) Instead, in my dream Mum was apathetic of the situation. She may have even shrugged her shoulders in resignation. This passive response infuriated me, but underneath it my subconscious was sensing a message. There is nothing we can do. We can’t control the situation. Acceptance. There was her answer. Mum had made peace with how my Dad was moving on and urged me to find peace with it too. 

Postscript – Mum said (while she was alive) that if she could come back after death and visit us she would. There have been a few times where I’ve particularly felt her show up and the latest letter incident felt like more than just a rediscovery of the letter. This is the type of thing (in my opinion) she (like me) would get riled up about. She took pride in her belongings and put her family first. Sure, she didn’t leave the table to me in her will, but after my father, she would have wanted me or my brother to have it. She was a feisty person and if nothing else - in exhausting my efforts to have it belong to me - I’ve honoured Mum’s spirit.