The Road

Deserted, the road seemed longer than usual. My thoughts lingered in places where we often met — especially those of her last few months. The cellular’s ring interrupted my thinking. “She does not seem well,” I heard the voice say.  

We would often sit at the dinner table where I would trace the veins of her hand while we spoke softly about her pending death with our emotions often getting in the way. Sometimes she would excuse herself to take a rest, coming back to continue where we left off. She had much to work through — her naps were a means to digest what we had discussed.  

She did not cry when she left her home one month later.   

Her breathing was shallow as I looked down at her face, feeling the urge to be at my father’s bedside.  I silently withdrew from those gathered around her.   

The shades were slightly drawn — the silence audible. Sitting on the chair slowly unscrewing the pot of cream, my fingers dipped into its smooth comforting texture. He made no effort to speak or move when I massaged his feet as she once did. "Dad, I think she is going." I did not expect a reply as I felt he already knew.

I entered her room where she was lying comfortably against pillows, now realising why they had indicated ‘seven pillows’. She did not ask but knew where I had been when I sat down on the bed. As our eyes met, she asked: “How long do they say I have?” 

My mind raced as I put my arms around her frail body whispering, “They say there are not many days anymore.”  She was not afraid to ask the question — she always did this in indirect manner. 

It hurt inside me as I stood up moving to the end of the bed. She lifted her head asking, “Who is that beside you?”   

Caught off guard, I replied, “I do not know, but believed that someone had come to be with her.

She died in the early hours of the morning — none of her children were there.  I had been awakened — not by the ring of the phone, but by her presence. 

The road seemed too short as I struggled with my hurt.