A bitter wind whips up sand. Not far off, crows gather on a rocky outcrop covered with a shifting mat of seaweed and the remains of a dead sheep. Watching the crows squabble, tearing at fleece and flesh, I think of my older brother and sister. Remember, only an hour ago, the pair of them going through our late mother's modest bungalow, searching.

I almost cried out when an old family album was trampled upon as if those memories held within were nothing but flotsam but unseen, watching from outside, I could only compare my older siblings to respectable dog walkers who scoop the poop into plastic bags only to throw those bags behind a bush when no one is looking.

Now the flock of crows rise up in a black cloud and I visualise Tim's flapping black coat as he worked from room to room with the finessse of a seasoned burglar while Beth, elegant in her funeral caot, moved about as if on stilts kicking at unwanted items.

Now it's beginning to snow. The beach is deserted and I retrace my steps back up over a bank of shingle that lead me up to well known sandy paths. The dunes, magical in half-light, shield me from the elements but later hard frost will form on coarse grass stiffening hardy blades into small, silvery spears.

I recall the days growing up and those dreams and wishes that filled my head but after I left, months and years passed and those dreams and wishes turned to cynicism. On bad days, I'd phone my mother. Spout lies of my success and after I'd finished gabbling, breathless and ashamed, Mum would ask when I was coming home only to receive lame excuses.

Occasioanlly, I returned for a short visit. Spun lies about a hectic life while she asked no embarrassing questions. But I sensed she saw through my charade when, at times, I'd catch her sad smile during quiet moments.

At Grandad's wake, two years ago, I endured jibes and ridicule from both my brother and sister. They stood shoulder to shoulder, challenging my claims and as they did so, I remembered a childhood incident in the back yard of Grandpa's house.

The field mouse, cornered by next door's cat, sat on its hind legs, holding up tiny paws like a minature boxer, pushing its head forwards as if to say, 'Come on. Try it.'

'Don't interfere with nature,' Grandpa said but admiring the mouse's bravery, I stamped my foot sending both mouse and its foe in opposite directions and from behind me, I heard my grandfather chuckling.

So I allowed my siblings to continue their vitriol and when they'd finished, they glanced about them as if suddenly aware of an audience of mourners. Then, they too fled and I remained pretending indifference.

Last summer, Mum told me that her ehart might soon stop beating and without any offers of help from Tim and Beth, I returned home to nurse and care for her. During those months, I confessed to all my indiscretions and as I confessed, she'd gently press the palm of her hand on top of my head like a blessing.

Now as I make my way back to the bungalow, I recall my father laid bricks for a living and remember the summer day when he left to renovate a farmhouse for a rich widow.

Mu waited for weeks and after a year had passed, she poured all her energy into the education and ambitions of her two eldest children.

My mother's distractions let me run wild and free over the dunes, day and night, summer and winter. But freedome wore thin and on my sisteenth birthday, I announced that I was leaving.

'Where are you going?' Mum was chopping carrots for a casserole.

'To the city,' I told her.

I waited, watching the knife chop and then she said, 'Don't be late. Tim and Beth will be home from university this evening.'

I left with a holdall while she continued to prepare the evening meal and now, pushing memories aside, I reach the gate and see that only deep tyre marks gouged into pebbles are the only reminders of my siblings final departure. Relieved I walk up to the front door, enter the bungalow's chilland moving from room ro room, I close thin curtains.

In the lounge, I find the discarded album lying among old bills and yellowing birthday cards. Picking the album up, turning on the gas fire, I sink down onto my mother's chair and open the book of happier memories.

Inside the loose cover, I find a photograph of a man grinning into the camera. Beside him, nestling her blonde head against his broad shoudler, my mother smiles a little self-consciously. They are young and though I'm looking at two strangers, I recognise from their expressions that they too once harboured dreams and wishes.

I glance around the room of my home; the home my mother bequeathed to me and letting my gaze drift from mantlepiece to the red brick fireplace, I breathe in the comforting smell of hot, dusty memories.

Leaning back,I can feel the palm of her hand gently pressing down onto the top of my head and my mother is saying, 'Don't waste the person you are, Maggie' Closing my eyes, her fingers are now stroking my hair and I let her Spirit enfold me.