It's my wedding anniversary and I catch the early morning train to work.

An hour later I'm walking along a corridor, into my office on the 13^th floor

and I think I must be in trouble as my boss is standing by the door.

He says, You'd better go back home. The Doctor's with your mother.

Next thing I know I'm sitting on the blue seat of a train that's pulling

out from Waterloo Station. Opposite me is a fresh faced squaddie

sprawled over two seats, the Sun open on Page 3 showing Mandy

in briefs talking about fertilizing rosebushes and her belief in angels.

Looks like you heard someone's just died, he says. Wanna a drink?

I shake my head but he's going to give me a can anyway. He rips

the ring-pull off, settles the cold Stella in my hands and wraps

his own round mine while tears blossom over my shirt and pinstrip suit.

At Clapham Junction the train comes to a stop and I see people hurrying

past on the busy platform, people who know what's it's like to have lost

a mother, people who carry mothers carelessly in handbags or pockets

and should realise they won't always be there to love or hate or tell us things

and people who maybe will be killed here in 18 months when the 07:18

from Basingstoke will be hit from behind by another running minutes late.

Then I'm home in Aldershot. Father's face is in shadow and the delicate

pickers from the Funeral Home have been. I'm left holding a can of beer

and wondering why Mother decided she had to leave us, today of all days?