Standing in the winter woods, away from the everyday rush of life, is like a moment out of time, solitary, cold and silent, like the hour I just spent with the body of my friend before I came here.
I drove into town after the early morning rush and parked outside the funeral directors. It must be the last bastion of free and easy parking in town, but you've got to lose a loved one to qualify. I lugged my rucksack, heavy with two DSLRs and a lens the weight of a newborn out of the passenger seat; collectively they're worth more than the car, which isn't much, but I can't leave them. I looked up at the tower block along the road, and see his budgie's rope perch still hanging from the lounge window catch of the eighth floor flat my friend occupied for the past 17 years.
How sadly ironic that he was back in this part of town again, a mere three weeks after leaving the flat and the old budgie rope, for a new place the other side of the railway line, close to these woods.
A smaller, more friendly block to call home, from which he had imagined a new and happier life. A life that included walks, in these woods.
Everyone is kind, hushed and respectful of my status as a Bereaved Person. Everything is spotless, and smells fresh, a front office, and a slightly concealed back area with a dining table and chairs not as incongruous as they sound, and tasteful mirrors and pictures and several closed doors at the end of small recesses and corridors. One of the mirrors reflects the road outside seen through a small gap. I see people walking past in the sunshine, and cars. This road was always busy, I remember the constant whoosh of traffic regularly peppered with sirens when I used to visit him at the flat.
I can watch the outside world carrying on it's business from in here, but no-one can see me. I am an invisible 58-year-old married mother of five and grandmother of four, waiting to go and see her friend's body. Tears threaten to spill over and I hide in the loo for a quick, intense cry, as involuntary as laughter. It moves through me like a rain shower across the downs, so compose myself and back at the dining table, the funeral director is opening a door.
It's a small blue room with two dining chairs, and a sideboard upon which are some china things, a box of tissues and a candle, flickering. There's a big vase on the floor with some flowers, dried I think, oh, and a coffin on a plinth covered in blue velvet trimmed with gold. Inside the coffin is lined in a calm sea of white satin which parts slightly to reveal the head and chest, hands gently crossed over the lower abdomen. It's as though he's been taken by death who is now lending part of him back, peeping coyly through the satin veil, for me to glimpse one last time. Which of course is exactly what is happening.
I cry for some time, and we have a laugh too, because we were like that. I apologise profusely and tearfully for not realising how close to death he was, and for not being a good friend during those times we all have when selfishness consumes us. He looks OK, better even than lately. They didn't get him quite right, but near enough.
After a while, half an hour maybe, I hear someone outside. At that moment I am back to sobbing and thanking him for his friendship, and I feel more than hear the person recede, leaving me to it. There is silence again, or maybe the muffled sound of the traffic...I listen for the sounds of life outside whilst I'm death's vast and silent presence. How can I cram all the decades in to this one goodbye? He knew all my weak points, my difficult little corners and what it meant when I was unable to speak. I could call him anytime day or night, home or hospital, even intensive care once, and he'd answer. How will I cope with radio silence now forever more?
In that instant he's in the room, slouching in the spare chair by the door. He's twenty years younger, left ankle resting on right knee, Rizla laid open and waiting for his ministrations on the Jeans of his thigh. He's pleased that I came to see him, and is laughing at my worry that we wouldn't be in contact. He first came in like that five days after his passing, looking so much younger, not the tiny old man that illness had made him. After that, he was around most times I thought of him.
Three-quarters of an hour have passed. I could stay here all day it's so peaceful and self-indulgent and a bit like therapy, because it's all about me...not him...he's dead. But also it's really kind of draining being around a body. Various layers of aura still cling to the departed, and pull upon the aura of the living as they are drawn steadily like smoke from the fireplace up and away from the hearth. Surrounding the departed one with flowers and candles provides the energy for this transition of the subtler bodies, but suddenly it was time to go.
One of the employees makes me a cup of tea as I return to the dining table, that symbol of normal, everyday living, whilst I stare directly at the closed door behind which is the silent corpse in his coffin. Another nice fellow apologises for leaving me alone to drink my tea and sits to keep me company, with chit-chat. I respond because he is being so kind but really I just want to be alone with my tea, and the closed door, and my phone. We're never really alone, with a phone are we? Unless it's that one number. That one that texted every single day since the dawn of time, just to say good morning. And never will again.
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