Unforgotten words

I am in the depths of lockdown, and the depths of despair. Cast again, a third time, into isolation, the extrovert in me struggles. My rock lives in another city these days, he and his husband offering support from afar. Last time, he saved my life: my work wife, my buddy who held the key to the safe, the code for the alarm. We were a team, thousands of dollars passing through our hands as we gifted our visitors with the manaaki they so desperately needed.

That was then, this is now. I have moved, regrouped, realigned. I am ready to take on the world, when Delta strikes. My resilience falters, but I convince myself I can do this, an hour, a day at a time. I am one of the lucky ones.

It is the nineties. My class is full of 18 and 19 year olds drawn from across Manukau, rich and diverse, poor and enthusiastic. My colleagues are men, wary of the tiny woman who runs down the wide corridors, seemingly pleased to be at work. One stops, and claims my class could be renamed: not Organisational Behaviour, but Organisational Misbehaviour, he chuckles. Me too … I want to have fun, I want them to learn, to be engaged. One woman - closer to my age - stands out in the class, her experience an asset, a treasure for others. This woman will become my friend. And later, as our paths swirl back and forth, she will be my teacher, my coach, my mentor.

The phone rings, as the sun seeps into my new home in the provinces. It is her, our shared years now numbering two decades or more. Her voice is familiar, her awhi wrapping around me. And then I stop: I have said something years ago that she remembers, but I have forgotten. It is cruel, it is unnecessary. I can’t recall, but I apologise, knowing the apology will not erase the words.

My mother is dying, and we gather at her bedside, holding her hand. Near the end, she utters five words. Five small words, their power so much greater than their size. I am shattered to hear them. And yet somewhere deep inside me, in my very bones, the truth has been revealed. 

My broken heart knows these words will remain forever unforgotten.





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Let me tell you

Image
She asks us to write, as we sit alone in our kitchens, our bedrooms, our cupboards, the glow of others’ laptops beaming through our screens. I shuffle, I stand, I adjust the lighting, not sure that I like what I see reflected in the glass tonight. It’s been a tough day, and I am bruised, deeply. The irony strikes me like the freight trains I hear at night when the prevailing wind blows. My kindness, my diligence, my attempt to support others’ well-being has ended in my own being irreparably damaged. The world is hurting right now, so I am right at home with millions of others, just when I thought I was immune. Let me tell you about marriage. This is our prompt from the gentle woman who is leading the creative writing webinar. “Just let it flow,” she says, as my pencil hovers above the untidy scribbles on the page. I cannot write about marriage. There is nothing in my head, nothing of value. For who am I to tell you about marriage, a woman without a husband? I feel disingenuous, a phony...
Read more

The meta-narrative

Image
I wake early, the waves crashing outside my window. It is early morning, and the salt-sprayed double-glazing struggles to keep the sound out. It is overwhelming, thunderous yet rhythmic, like the train that no longer runs on the track, its bridge destroyed by the cyclone. I open the doors and look into the sky, littered with stars, a lone truck or seabird punctuating the inhalations of the sea. This blog is “Tiny Stories” but there has been no room to write, no incentive. All the stories have been big: Gabrielle, bringing destruction and heart-break; weddings and funerals, laced with sorrow and joy; rising prices and frugal habits. The safety net is torn, and people are retracting. Or fighting. Energy wasted on competing when collaboration is the key. Library books on grief and poetry collections litter my house: the words a comfort for me and those I tend to. Lucy Hone , New Zealand’s own resilience expert; a tiny guide to sit in the palm of your hand or gift to a friend who need...
Read more

Three little words

Image
Sleepless in Stonefields. It is two or three a.m. and I’m wide awake, thinking about Russell Brand. Transformation best describes him, a man whose life turned around 180 degrees. He’s my go-to podcast in the wee small hours, though that harsh “Mockney”accent grates in the darkness. The Under the Skin taster (I have to subscribe to hear the whole thing) is just enough to tempt me, to set the neurons of my sleep-addled brain firing. His guest - a woman whose name I will need to look up - reveals that our metabolism and heart rate is impacted not just by experiences, but by words. Language, that unique, precious and often underrated talent of humans, has the ability to influence our physiological state. She - I cannot find her name - assures me that even a text from across the globe can have significant impact, three little words enough to start the heart palpitating. And then it stops, the podcast preview. I am left hanging. So I create my own, my texts of three little words. I keep it ...
Read more