‘I feel an aching loss at being a long distance mother’

The small sharp teeth of Romany sink into the furry underbelly of Tinker. Ocelot patterned softness is exposed. A small squeal of protest then pumping back legs give him the upper hand. The two small creatures roll off the edge of the bed.

Warm air, sickly and cloying fills the room, a rich potion making eyelids heavy. The electronic device outside the Country Club says 34C. I have been on the verandah until now, my thoughts trailing away unfinished. I feel betrayed by this weather, startling light so intense it hurts, the sounds of children in the swimming pool, and blue as far as I can see.

Where was this heat when I needed it? She came for warmth, and for us to be together; my daughter. We had that stolen time together, but with frigid temperatures she was permanently attired in a pink sweater. Mounds of coloured tee shirts lay in her suit case; frothy skirts lay hidden in the dark wardrobe, unworn.

“Guess it’s the sweater again,” she said each morning.

We should have known the unexpected happens when you least expect it. How could we know we would be searching for firewood two days after Christmas? The tumbling kittens stop fighting, as their mother returns with her musical call to them. In seconds they lay quietly feeding, save for Tinker. He has bonded with humans and flops down close to my leg on the bed.

My daughter and I have sunny memories. Wearing straw hats and drinking wine, or walking along the endless beach at Woodside. Precious days we will need to store away, times of sharing silence as she played with the kittens, or listened to music, with both of us tied into our thoughts.

She has returned now, is back where snow invades doorways and ice leaves tracery on windows. I remember only the dun-coloured hedges in bleak dark, winter, the soggy ground refusing to let green shoots burst forth. As I lay here hiding from the midday heat, she will be sleeping too, hibernating, and evading the cold.

The striped body of the mother cat lies flat exposing the white skin where she had her operation. No more kittens for her, Gypsy chews at her tail and she flicks it. The soft mound of his belly rises and falls as Romany sleeps, and he twitches in a dream. Soon the kittens will be gone in different directions, away from the gentle life I provide. They have been sleeping on soft beds, had good food on demand, the harsh reality of life awaits them. For the mother cat too, the time will be anguished, I already know she will search for them long after they are gone. Looking for small traces; hunting for their scents. A tangible bond broken.

I peer at the clock, telling me its 1:32pm and still 30C. I try to retreat inside my head and picture where my daughter is now. In a 250-year-old house, while outside her window frost stiffens the grass stalks. She will be wearing layers of clothes and leather boots. For a moment I listen and hear the radio playing a song we both like, a 1960s melody. Music heals the soul.

Drifting into sleep I am linked to her, on a floral cover surrounded by sleeping kittens. Music connects us, I will tell her when I phone about the song, it goes between us, and helps to heal the gaping wound of distance. When I phone, she tells me she took home an empty perfume bottle of mine. The straw she clutches to reach the drink, and the tears start.

“What? The cheap Avon stuff?’ I query. Disguising my sadness.

“It just reminds me, Mum,” she replies and we are both silent remembering. The distance is cruel, and we say goodbye, yet knowing whatever happens we will still be connected.

Is there a great distance separating you from a loved one?

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