On my most recent journey to the city I decided to visit the David Jones food hall. I have often done this in the past around Christmas time because my mum liked many of the English labels that were on display, such as Fortnum and Mason. I would invariably buy her an English Christmas cake, one with royal icing and marzipan. Sometimes I would buy a bespoke plum pudding too. In later years, she had stopped making the puddings that were such a feature of the Christmas dinner when we were kids.

I wrote in January that I had made a similar visit to the food hall in late December of 2024. My mother had passed away only two weeks earlier and the whole of Christmas for my brothers and I was on hold. I don't know why I went there as I had nothing to buy and no-one to buy it for, though it is a lovely place to wander about in at any time of the year.

As I made my way through the well-stocked Christmas food aisles, browsing the hampers, chocolates, cakes and sundry items, a nagging question was stuck at the back of my mind - 'What are you doing here David?'

As I turned to make my way back up the stairs and out into the pulsing traffic in Market Street, the answer became clear. I was looking for my mother. I was all a part of the grieving process.

Shortly after I wrote the poem, 'Grace', about this very event. Grace is not my mother's name, but the process which I came to discover why I was where I was.

If you'd like to read the poem, go back to January 8, where I first published it.