When mum died, a whole world died with her.
Last week, I visited what remains of part of her world - her friends - and I took Delia to meet some of her dearest Iranian friends at Jila's house. Jila knew Mum since before i was born and I always liked her . I think she was one of the few who didn't squeeze our cheeks till they were red...
We sat and had gorgeous Iranian food, while Delia ran around on the grass with bluebells as her backdrop. I let the music of a language that I only half know soothe me...and Delia to get that passionate kind of loving attention only Iranian women know how to give in that totally expressive way. I had some moments of overwhelming pain come in through the soothing feeling of being there, and could almost hear her voice among the melee of voices telling jokes, stories, gossip - all the juicy stuff Mum liked, which would have been spiced up with a good dose of political argument if she had been there.
Sometimes it's so easy to feel her around us, and at others she feels so far gone on her journey it's hard not to feel totally alone, like a child waiting for the sound of her mothers voice to make its way round the corner, accompanied by the smell of saffron and lilies.