This week is tough, for many small / big moments that trigger a crashing rush of grief.

Mum’s mobility equipment (hospital bed, slide sheets, perch stools, hoist -all the stuff needed to keep a frail body comfortable and able to be cared for) was collected. It was a big moment, it left an almost empty room, where only a few weeks ago, there we were together. Of course, I’m grateful that we live where these things are available to lean for as long as needed. I’m grateful that they arrived with great efficiency and speed, but there was such a finality in them going that I howled.

Putting the final touches to the order of service for the funeral, I trawled the boxes of photos we have, to find some nice ones to include. It was a shock to realise just how few I have of Mum. She hated having her photo taken. Would avoid it at all costs, given the chance. So I ended up with just a handful, and again, the finality hit- that there will be no new photos, that these precious few are all I have of her. How I wish I’d taken more over the years.

Then a seemingly insignificant moment- watching Silent Witness, (a guilty pleasure) a programme we watched together for years and years. We used to have a silly ritual of attempting to hit the high notes of the theme tune, but given both our feeble singing skills, it ended up more like the sound of demented cats fighting. And yet, each week it made us laugh together. And particularly poignant, last episode, Nicky and Jack got married, Mum would have absolutely loved to see that, had been egging them on for years, yet never got to see these final moments. I can imagine the smile on her face though. These shared sillinesses, these intimate moments that mean nothing to anyone else but us. We will never sing together again.

Today, in Waitrose, I automatically reached for the food magazine- we always picked one up for mum. I reached out, then withdrew my hand as another wave of loss piled in.

For each of us, these wave-break moments are different (or maybe everyone sings to Silent Witness?) Yet, each time, a tiny fragment of the enormity of grief is revealed. Grief isn’t one big solid thing, it is a web of fragments, each one a loss in itself. The routines we had, the private jokes we shared, the way we interacted with those we loved.

Each time we encounter one of these fragments we are reminded that they are not coming back. That the loss is final. That we continue but they do not.