Childless Parents Newsletter, Winter 2020

Newsletter for Childless Parents | www.tcf.org.uk 14 My two sons are buried in a natural woodland. Here, in a short excerpt from my memoir, Am I Still a Mother? I describe this peaceful site through the seasons. In spring the woodland is still, yet alive with new growth, bustling with creatures I rarely see, but who leave their trace; silver snail trails, bird lime on the wooden grave markers and the chewed wreaths where deer grazed. Slender bluebells dip their graceful heads, followed by spires of foxgloves welcoming the bees into their freckled hearts. In summer, I walk through other sections of the woodland, looking at the inscriptions on the wooden plaques. Some have more elaborate carvings: garden tools perhaps or a robin. I fancy when I die, that I would like a deer, with her two fawns. In bad weather I retreat to the warmth of the Gathering Hall, where I help myself to a mug of coffee, or write something in the book of remembrance. Sometimes I join one of the regular services, held throughout the year. Entering the octagonal hall, light floods in from the three full length glass panels ahead. Occasionally, deer look on from the woodland beyond, or graze, oblivious to the people seated just yards away. Later, in the courtyard, we release doves. We hold them gently in our cupped hands, feeling their hearts fluttering beneath their snowy breasts, before flinging our arms skyward, holding our breath as they wing away, willing them safely home. In winter, I stand in this same courtyard to sing carols, fingers warming around plastic cups of spice-steaming wine. Our eyes strain in the dying light to read our song-sheets, while above us soar the dark shadows of roosting birds returning to the wood, their haunting cries blending with those familiar choruses, as though the souls of our loved ones are drawn back to us by memories of Christmases shared. Helen Bouchami Am I Still a Mother?