For a fraction over 20 years now, I have phoned my mother at 6:30pm every day. If I’ve been speaking to you around that time, you’d already know I duck out for a few minutes or I join meetings late, that kind of thing.

But not any more. I’m afraid my mom died early on Monday morning and on every second word of this sentence I can’t believe I’m writing this. It’s not like it wasn’t entirely expected, and she was 94, but I am having trouble typing.

I remember her telling me, such a long time ago now, of a bus ride she’d taken. She’d been to visit my Auntie Mary in hospital, was riding alone on the bus, and when she got home, there was a call to tell her that my aunt had died. I was thinking of this about 1:30am on Monday as I drove to the hospital, having been told the end was near. Normally I listen to music, to radio, to something, but this time I was just listening to the road.

It was so quiet. The hospital carpark was cold and windy — and the hospital doors were locked. I spent quite some time trying to attract the attention of a cleaner. But then I saw some staff and one walked me around the back ways to the wards.

I’d been there only a few hours before. It’s possible that I was the last person she saw. My mom hadn’t slept the night before and so she’d been sleeping constantly through the day, but I was asked to see if she would eat anything. She opened her eyes just enough to see me, a nurse, and a spoon of yoghurt, before she closed them again.

Visiting hours ended shortly after that and I went home, wondering about the times for coming back. As it happens, the answer was about five hours later.

My mom, Grace Gallagher, died before I got back to her.

I’ve been in her flat since and it is like the place has died, too. There’s a hand mirror that she won’t fiddle with ever again. Its action and life is switched off. Her clothes upset me, too.

A photograph of her as a little girl was a knife. And I’m not sure who to phone at 6:30pm to talk about it.