I understand, too, the human instinct to avoid speaking directly of death, the superstitious compulsion to smooth over and skitter around its dreadful and inescapable void, even if you believe in an afterlife.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I am not scornful of anyone who utters these words, I just don’t want to hear them. And really, who cares? It’s just a few words, get over it, get a grip, get on with life. Yet in my shameful secret irritability, I have a staunch ally, even in death – my mother. The person who taught me the difference between “its” and “it’s”. Who, when I was backpacking around Europe, corrected the spelling in my letters home by return post. Who as Frau Taffel taught German to generations of Sydney schoolgirls, and who helped me learn it as a child when our family spent two years in Germany.

My mother hasn’t passed, or passed on, or gone to a better place. She is not lost; we know exactly where she is. Under a camellia bush.

As a joyful grandmother, she read to my son from early on, progressing from picture books to The Magic Faraway Tree and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, then helping with homework. He was 10 and she 78 when she first got cancer, two years ago; recovery was slow but she seemed to be improving. None of us had the slightest notion she would die so suddenly, when a different cancer stormed in from left field, taking her out within a week.

As I sat in the hospital room, with my father holding her hand, reluctant to let go for the last time, he told me her strict instructions: “When I go, tell people I died.”

So she hasn’t passed, or passed on, or gone to a better place. She is not lost; we know exactly where she is. Under a camellia bush at the house she and Dad built and shared for more than 50 of their 60 years together. Where my sister and I grew up, and my son as a toddler drove his scooter madly up and down the hallway. Her ashes have joined those of her parents, scattered in the same spot.

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“I’m sorry for your loss.” I wince because I feel my mother wincing, too. I see her wielding a red pen, firmly crossing out “for” and “loss” and offering a simple solution for those who baulk at the D-word.

“I’m sorry about your mum.” Or, if you know her name, “So sorry to hear about Sue.”

Or simply, as another nurse said to my father as we left hospital, “I’m so sorry.” And if you are willing to call a spade a spade, like Harry Potter speaking Voldemort’s name out loud, there’s always: “I’m so sorry your mum died.”

In the weeks after her death, childhood memories bubbled up, some long-forgotten. Her made-up story about Flora the fairy who lived in a tree at our local park. Cooking tinned sausages on a tiny stove perched on the back of our station wagon, never letting on how much she hated camping. Her gossamer-soft pink powder puff in the bottom drawer of the bathroom cabinet. The glam wigs she wore to her own ’70s dinner parties; the “Ooh!” moment when she emerged dressed for a night out, so soignée in her black rabbit-fur coat. My sister thought it was like secretly harbouring a real-life princess in our family, who revealed herself every once in a while.

But it was her un-princessy, day-to-day self that shone most brightly: forthright, opinionated, pragmatic, curious, an early adopter and a spirited letter writer who taught us to stick up for ourselves and others. I miss our boundless conversations and seeing the smile that lit up her whole body.

So please, on her behalf, no euphemisms or platitudes. No resting, no passing, no losing. No shuffling off this mortal coil or joining the bleedin’ choir invisible.

Her name was Sue Taffel, and she is dead. Thank you, my dear mother, and goodbye.

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