My mother passed away exactly 22 years ago. Speaking with my 85-year-old father this morning, we both remembered her fondly.
In my first job out of university as a very junior research officer, I accompanied colleagues to brief a high-profile barrister in Melbourne. Mum asked whether they liked my shirt. When I took her to see the office tower in which I worked - the Melbourne Central Tower - she was unable to look to the top of the building until she had first found something to hang on to.
Mum was a farmer's wife and lived simply. All three of her children went to university. One is a stay-at-home medical doctor, one is a scientist working in London, and one is an economist and lawyer with a PhD in cognitive science. We're all grown up now (at or approaching 60 years). Then there are the great grandchildren she never met.
As the world becomes more complex with political intrigue and corruption, woke ideologies, looming global conflicts and artifical intelligence threatening our very existence, I'm pretty sure mum would be more focused on what her children are wearing (I've chosen my most blingy yellow shirt for the day), whether we're all happy, and what to cook for the evening meal tonight.