The flowers in Madeira reminded me of my mother’s garden in South Africa. She loved gardening and the plants grew well for her – they really had no choice as she urged and cajoled them into growth. Indeed, they hardly dared not flourish! These were happy memories, but then, as I walked round the Museum of Sacred Art her last day flashed into my mind, unexpected and unwanted, and I felt that awful overwhelming sadness again. I wanted to see her, and talk to her. But somehow, at moments like this when I cry out, silently of course, she is with me; somehow she knows and somehow she is there.


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