‘Rose tinted glasses’

Mother it has been a month since you have passed away. I have wandered where you have and attempted to relive memories the same way you did yet I have only cried in each place I visited. I remember your detailed stories of what each experience provided you and how you felt. You always said London as a whole echoed the feeling of love in the weirdest ways. From all I know London is nothing but cold, dreary and melancholic, however you never saw it that way, no you didn’t. You always viewed every aspect of life with your rose-tinted glasses. I cannot help but think you overly romanticised every aspect of what you saw, I still struggle to believe all the stories you told me.

There was one story in particular which you insisted was real, do you remember? The one about the roses? Each week, you would be seated within the centre of Neals Yard as you read “Little women” sipping your shot of espresso from Jacob the Angel. The fresh morning dew of each rose you were gifted left marks upon your teal-coloured scarf that would leave a slight indigo blue stain. I sat down in your seat, drank out of the same espresso mug you were given each time, those who worked in Jacob the Angel realised who I was and all I could sense was pity, their eyes screamed it. I am only known for the death of my own mother. 

I went back to Camden market recently, last time I went I was 11. It’s the exact same, nothing has changed. The annoying tourists unable to walk on one side and the endless choices of food stands pulling you in with their endearing smell remain. However, all I could think of is you. I remember the day you brought me for the first time, the passion you had for this place was like none other. Your beaming smile dragging me through the roaring crowds till we reached Camden’s bridge, I will never forget it. You introduced me to the feeling of liberation as I watched your eyes being drawn from each and every direction. They resembled a feeling of home. That day was one to remember, your walnut brown eyes were lit with spots of orange flickers from the lights above, they were filled with admiration. I never understood why it was so special to you, but oddly enough I share this deep-rooted love for this place the same way you did. I wonder if it is to feel closer to you, because all I feel is nothing but a million light years away. 

I questioned how you always said to me that love was echoed everywhere in London but now I somewhat see it here, love is visible in every direction, wherever I look. The holding of hands, the tight grips of reassurance, to seeing the subtle ways of how affection projected from one person to another. Of course, I saw many children with their mothers and fathers, I watched from afar how each pairing of mother and child had their own unique bond with each other. Jealously overtook me, it was unbearable. Whether it was platonic, romantic or maternal love I saw it all, I think I have gained my own pair of rose-tinted glasses but they definitely aren’t anything compared to yours. 

Emptiness, isolation and nostalgia is all I am currently capable of, without you I have lost all sense of direction and control. I wish I viewed the streets of London alongside you, viewing love in the way you did. But now I am unwillingly being dragged down by the anchor of your death.