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As I write this, it's the eve of the day. This day. 10 years since our lives were rocked and shattered. 

10 years is a long time. I don't want it to have been 10 years. I don't want one day for it to have been more than half my life. And one day for me to be the age that she was. But those things will happen.

It's been on my mind much these past few weeks. The coming up of a memory day; anniversary doesn't seem the right word...

Each day doesn't get easier as such. One just learns to live with it. To come to terms with it. After this much time in my life, I have come to terms with it - to a degree. I still can't believe it. Don't know why. Why why why. 

Huh! Why not, I remind myself. It's the cycle and the flow. It's necessary. It's inevitable. And that I suppose is the scary part in a different sense. 

Living on this land, that I think of as my mother's land, brings me closer to her. Closer in one way and further in another way. Because she should be here with me, when I'm here. She should, she should! But then - when I hear and see the black cockatoos careening and playing and stretching across the sky I think of her, I feel her. And she's here. When I see the flowers and plants she planted I know she's here.

It's said that the best way to honour and remember our loved ones is to talk of them, and keep them in our thoughts, our hearts, our minds. For me - I know that I am keeping my mother alive through my doing, my making, my being. 

Each year it becomes more and more important for me to continue on with my journey as a maker, a creative, an artist, a crafter because I know that those are the things that my mama would love to see in me. I know those are the parts of me that would make her happy. That we would sit and crochet together, or she would have got me back into knitting. She with her wild crazy colours, and her not-always perfect stitches. She with her silly giggle and her elbows moving, me at her side. Me at her side.

We would explore the forest, and find treasures and pieces to put into a dye pot. We would stitch and wrap fabric and be witches together in the sunshine, or under the moonlight. The children would follow her, and jump in the freezing cold creek with her. She would take them to the beach, and make them swallow a mouthful salt water to heal them - and to connect with their past, and their future. She would walk along and gather shells and driftwood and build castles with them. She would be wearing her pinkish sarong and a big straw hat. And because it might be Summer she'd have sandals on. In Winter big leather boots under her dresses.

These are the things she'd be doing. She'd make us smile. She'd remind us that we are beautiful. And to laugh at ourselves. To explore and adventure. And to be humble. She'd listen and then tell us her wisdom. Perhaps she'd toss the I-Ching coins for us. She'd wonder if she should do this or do something else - she'd never be sure where her path lay, but she'd surely help us along our path. 

She'd always be there for us. Always know us. At our side. At our side.