Thoughts and fragments of my colourful mother
12.8.26
Fragments of thoughts, broken sentences, sounds and fleeting images from the past have gathered over the years into a tight, colourful ball of yarn. Here is a small unravelling of that knot. Things said aloud that were never actually spoken. Questions between the lines — ones I asked, and didn’t ask… and you didn’t answer, though you knew. My mother: outspoken, talkative, funny, explosive, deeply feeling, a master of shifting roles in social situations. Yet you never showed everything of yourself. Not ever.
You were the most important and trustworthy person to me when I was a child. And so brave. I told you everything, and you listened, advised wisely, and understood. But sometimes I got a scolding. Later, your occasionally very Topelian¹ worldview irritated me (because it affected me, whether I wanted it to or not), but we always remained close.
I never managed to talk with you about womanhood — mine or yours — or about your youth, at the time when I would finally have had the maturity and courage for it. That saddens me deeply. Our relationship didn’t really move forward during the last twelve years of your life. But through your many letters and the thoughts you wrote into your diaries, I’ve found something new. You were different and multifaceted; at times it troubled you and isolated you. You would have been a brilliant blogger — oh, how you would have loved it.
From the beginning of 2000 I was under enormous pressure at work, and at home there was still a little one, not yet ten. Our meetings were short, a little theatrical, and quite set in their pattern: catching up, quick coffees, a bit of silliness, a bit of gossip, sighs.
You: “Oh, I’m in a rush — well, you know your father.”
Me: “Yes, I know. Take it easy.”
You: “Try to cope — why are you in such an exhausting job? Anyway, off you go, it’s time to cook again, there’s a huge pile of laundry and I need to get to the shop. I can’t come over, we’re always on the move, oh dear me, you know your father…”
Me: “Could you do the school pick‑up next Tuesday? Thank you for helping, thank you for being there.”
I marvelled at your pace, but I didn’t know how to stop, to take time just for us. Then something began to change. You hid and denied things — your growing frailty, even fear. You were already eighty. Later I understood.
And when time stopped, it stopped completely for you. From 2014 onwards you fell almost completely silent, caught in the deep undercurrents of your memory. A stroke took your voice twice, and finally altogether. You had to leave your home, and your interest in life faded. The situation paralysed you, embarrassed you, saddened you, angered you — you felt all of it.
I kept up my little pep‑talks beside you: “Right then, hello again, is everything okay, we’re doing fine, try to cheer up a bit, I’ll come again…” and so on. You just looked somewhere out of the window and seemed tired of it all. And 2022 — that was the last spring.
I remember your eyes always; the sight still moves me. They spoke — of irritation, yes — but so much of longing, of love.
Right now I’m waiting for my own young ones, my small grandchild, the first. I often wonder what kind of grandmother I am — mummi, mumma, mammu, mummo? Or nothing I’ve been before? Simply exist. Would that be wiser.
I think a lot about you — and my mother‑in‑law. It was clear: you both loved your grandchildren. For us it’s easy now, with only one — no competition. Just one little darling. I do wonder — one shouldn’t spoil him too much.
But mother, you certainly spoiled them. You spoiled and defended them, talked things through, steered cleverly, with love. You were already a little more tired when the youngest was a toddler, but even then you firmly brought out paper and pencils, made treats, were safe, funny, and at times a touch theatrical — yourself.
Your daughter
¹ Pertaining to Zachris Topelius, a Finnish author known for his gentle, idealised view of life.