Dear Mum,

As a child in the sixties, I remember you looking so glamorous and beautiful wearing a sparkling ball gown, your blonde hair piled high, the whole ensemble finished off with a perfectly placed beauty spot near your eye. I remember someone asking if you were a natural blonde. Your reply was, “That’s what it says on the bottle.” 

When I was a teenager in the seventies, you made me laugh and almost made me die with embarrassment. Once, I was summoned by the teacher after handing over a permission slip for an excursion. Signing the note as Mickey Mouse was not acceptable — thanks, Mum.

Around this time, you procured some bus tour brochures. With the aid of your sister, you organised the bus trip of the century, and managed to put together an itinerary that took you around Australia nonstop in eight days. You slept and ate on buses, transferred to other buses, spent nothing on accommodation, and even spent a day in Darwin Hospital with an allergy flare up. How you found time for that, I do not know. You came home with dozens of photos taken from the bus window, all blurry. You are the gift that keeps on giving.

As the years rolled by into the eighties and nineties, you and Dad were only a phone call away when I needed you. You have always been there for me when I needed help, and you’re still making me laugh at your antics.

Now you’re eighty-five, four-foot-ten on a good day, and scared of three-foot ponies. It’s almost sixteen years since Dad died and I know how much you miss him. We all do. You play Bridge at the Mudgee Bridge Club and hold the impressive title of Gold Life Master, of which you remind us every chance you get. The reporter from The Mudgee Guardian newspaper dubbed you a card shark. How many copies of that newspaper do you possess?

Even though I live in Ettalong and you live in Mudgee, we are close, just a phone call away. I will never stop making the five-hour trip to see you, because you are worth it. You make me feel so loved. 

Love, your favourite daughter,
Susan.