When someone you love is nearing the end of their life everything else narrows. The wider world dims and becomes unimportant.
This time last year our mother, our beloved Matty, had slipped into coma and we were, as we say in Ireland, awaiting on. What do I remember? I remember that on the roads from my house to her house the verges were smothered in dandelion blooms. I remember how good our friends, neighbours and relations were. I remember the devotion and care of her priest, her doctor, the Marie Curie nurses and her carers. I remember walks in bluebell woods with one sister or another as we sought respite from her dying.
I knew nothing of the devastating tornadoes in the United States nor of the floods in Colombia. I was barely aware of the Arab Spring. The impending wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton was an irrelevance. Some months afterwards as I leafed through a magazine featuring their wedding I found myself wondering why I hadn't seen anything of it on television. After all, it must have been saturation coverage. Then I remembered. I was at my mother's funeral on that day.