There’s something about November isn’t there?

A month that stands with one foot in the past, yearning for the longer, warmer days of summer, the other facing forward into the shorter, colder days of the winter and all that it brings.

It’s a no-man’s land of a month. October gliding out on the wings of the small trick-or-treat witches who come knocking on our doors at Halloween, that mystical time of Samhain now overshadowed by candy and costumes. Before the November sun rises, bringing with it the spirits of those we have loved and lost on All Souls' Day.

It’s a time when many of us pause and take a moment to reflect on those who are no longer with us.

Not that we need a season, or a reason, to remember. Reminders of them can be found all around us. The echo of their voice singing along to ‘that’ song on the radio. A hint of their essence in the subtle scent of a stranger’s perfume as they pass by, and their smiling face captured in the many photographs on our walls and the bookshelves.

As Patrick Kavanagh wrote, ‘Leaves fall from November’s tragic trees and love that once shouted goes whispering', and for those of us with family in far away places it can be a month when the ache is particularly acute too.

My ache is for my firstborn, Jill, who lives in Australia with my two precious grandchildren.

It has been two and a half years since I last saw her and I have yet to meet her two babies. My circumstances making it impossible for me to travel. For my daughter, I can only imagine that a simple trip to the shops is a challenge, never mind a twenty-five hour, three-flight journey.

Thanks to technology though, we go everywhere together, our words and worlds colliding as I walk through the village she used to call home, scrolling through the endless stream of photographs and video she sends. Replying with a picture of a heron by the water, the dying sunlight dappling through the winter trees as I text, ‘Do you remember?'.

We’re careful about what we talk about, trying not to scratch the itch that underlines every word. Sticking strictly to the safe clichés of how small the world is, and how lucky we are to have FaceTime to keep in touch.

Ironic, really, as there is no touch. Hasn’t been for years, and isn’t likely to be anytime soon.

‘How is she?’ the neighbours ask as they pass, proudly pushing their grandchildren in pristine prams.

‘She’s great', I answer with a smile and an enthusiastic nod. Watching as they wander home to put the kettle on, and take the biscuits out for tea and chat, and I’m happy for them. Really. I know she smiles, too, in that place of sunny Novembers and upbeat accents, as she watches mothers and daughters out shopping, or laughing in matching white robes and slippers in those high-end spas she dreams of us visiting together.

As I’m writing this, I hear the familiar tone and look at my phone, and see a message from Jill illuminate the screen.

‘Hi, Mum. I miss you. Ring me.' I smile, and I ring.

She’s in great form. All well in her upside-down world.

Apart from the enormous spider in the bathroom.

‘It’s sooo expensive here, mum.’

Her children cry and the conversation ends.

‘I have to go mum, you know how it is.’

I turn on Morning Ireland, and make myself a cup of coffee, and think about that first step, the first time a tiny hand clasped mine, the first time I heard her say mammy. All those long days and short years that passed far too fast.

I sit with one foot in the past, yearning for the longer, warmer days of childhood and the other facing forward into the shorter, colder days of the winter and all that it brings.

Yes, I know how it is.