To Say Goodbye

I spent nearly a week in the little house on the hill.

In the mornings I made a cup of tea and sat outside, watching the sun rise over the forest. Every leaf and flower sparkled with raindrops, black cockatoos and currawongs competed with kookaburras for a place in the morning chorus, and the magnolias moved from bud to bloom in the space of a day.  In the absence of running hot water I became a master of bird bathing with sufficient speed to stay warm.

Not a bird bath

I spent the days with family as they navigated the slow, inevitable progression toward the end of a loved one's life, moments of activity and action balanced by time measured only by words breathed quiet, the ebb and flow of pain escaping the neat regimentation of minutes and seconds. Flowers jostled for space on the top of the fridge; tears flowed; jokes were told and visitors reminisced on the moments, both big and small, that added up to one single life. In what was becoming a tradition of my clan, a spontaneous family gathering blossomed on the grassy lawn outside the palliative care room, complete with BBQ chops, peanut fudge, and children playing enthusiastic games of hide & seek in the garden.

Where shall I hide?

The quiet hours of the night slid by, attended by a nurse whose purple hair matched the purple gloves on her gentle hands. Days and hours became slippery things, both impossibly long and yet disappearing between one breath and the next. Plane tickets, however, adhered to a rigid schedule which insisted I say my goodbyes on a misty midday and take the bus back down the hill in the rain. 

And while I was walking to the bus the last breath was breathed, and it was over.

Goodbye.