A long time ago in a galaxy far, far...no...sorry, in this galaxy, I was once 9 years old. And 9 year old me was a bit of an aloof, arsehole, know-it-all that none of the other kids at school cared about much one way or the other. And for the vast majority of the time I did not give a toss.

Except for this one time.

This one time I came home from school, went straight to my room & sobbed silently into my, with hindsight, frankly terrifying clown decorated pillow case. This was not something I tended to do, pretty much, ever. And strangely, to this day, I have no idea what had happened at school to make me quite so upset.

After a few minutes my Mum came up to see if I intended to come & eat the standard 1980s meal of crispy pancakes & waffles with the rest of the family & found me crying. This was not something that she tended to do, pretty much, ever. She used to tell me that she liked the way I let the mean things other kids said & did roll right off me, so she was startled to find me in such distress.

She sat silently on the edge of the bed & stroked my back whilst I sobbed & attempted to stammer out the woeful tale of what name some snot-nosed bastard kid had probably yelled at me as I passed through the school gates. Eventually she calmed me down using the usual mum techniques of forehead-kisses & bone-cracking hugs before prescribing a warm bath, clean pyjamas & an early night (all things the non-sobbing version of my 9 year old self would've kicked in the face before sitting up all night in my school uniform to read The Hobbit).

When I was finally clean & tucked up beneath the red-nosed horrors of my duvet, my mum told me she had something for me & produced a little green & white knitted rabbit. She'd bought him at my school's Christmas bazaar that same day & had intended to give him to me as a Christmas present. But she wanted me to have him early, because I was sad, & she didn't want me to be sad anymore. We called him Minty. You know, because of that whole...rabbit/toothpaste...thing...yeah. I was never much cop at naming stuff.

And that night, instead of my usual book-induced insomnia, I fell asleep quickly, holding Minty in one hand & my Mum's hand in the other.

 In recent weeks, I'd been coming back to this memory of my Mum over & over again. Mainly because I was starting to worry that I didn't seem to have many childhood memories of mum where she wasn't angry or upset with me, or me with her. I know we can't have spent all of the eighties & nineties screaming at one another but I really couldn't recall another occasion where Mum had shown such softness towards me. I know that there must have been other times where she tucked me in, & stroked my face, & told me she loved me. I just can't remember them. All the memories I seemed to be able to dredge up were ones where she had made me feel bad, or where I was sure she had scuppered my plans. And I had started feeling all sorts of weird, misdirected resentments towards her.

And then, 2 weeks ago, out of fucking nowhere, she died. And all the head stroking, & kisses & bone-breaking hugs I had in me couldn't fix her.

And, even though I don't for a single second believe in life after death, or heaven or any of that jazz, I couldn't bear the idea that Mum would be alone on her very last journey. I also knew that should there turn out to be a place where dead people do hang about watching their loved ones like some sort of creepy stalker, Mum would be so sad to see how sad we all were without her. And I instantly thought of Minty the rabbit. My Mum once gave him to me so I wouldn't be sad anymore. And I wish I was able to let her take him so she wouldn't be sad anymore. But if I gave him to her, I wouldn't have that one, precious, connection to her. So I gave her a photo of him instead. And on her way into the Big Sleep, she went, holding Minty in one hand &, I hope, the memory of my hand in the other.