The Long Goodbye

My heart is pounding, even before I take an illicit right turn into the retirement village from the busy inner-city road. Its iconic buildings and drop-off area are familiar, but this is the first time I have visited this particular one, close to where I now live, back in the metropolis. As I pull into a park marked for the Care Unit, I grab the book I’ve brought – a collection of poems by Samoan woman, Tusiata Avia, a deeply personal reflection about her family as they mourn the loss of her father, the patriarch. 

Heading to the Sales Office, I wonder if my mate – who has the gift of the gab - is onsite. He was yesterday, but today he’s further south, though his off-sider is bright and helpful. She guides me to the luxurious reception, where I’m warned there’s COVID in the unit. Hesitating, I pause, quickly weighing up the options in my mind and out loud. It’s now or never I decide, and the receptionist kindly escorts me to the secure building across the flawlessly landscaped entrance, where I wait for someone to let me in. 

Masks and sanitiser sit on the table, but I have a crumbled one in my bag. As the nurse and I move through the second door, I see a circle of people and briefly wonder if I’ve stumbled across an AA meeting. She goes to my friend, releasing him from the activity, and I take him outside to the manicured garden, its high walls impossible to scale. He is dressed in a bright checkered shirt, and a cap sits on his head, a reminder of years gone by. The conversation is gentle, as I identify myself, and thank him for his work, for his mahi with thousands of people. Sentences are half finished (or is that half-started?) and I let them stay that way, just sitting beside him on the wooden bench. My shoes, he says, have time on them. Later, I wonder if he is commenting on the years I have left, but there is no way of knowing. I do not ask.

He notices the book in my lap, and I offer to read. The poems are about death and dying, love and loss. I choose one, not sure that it’s appropriate, but he is grateful to hear my voice, the cadence of the rhyme, the words that are familiar yet distant in his jumbled brain. “Why haven’t you come before?” he asks in a moment of clarity, (or is it confusion?) “I’ve been away,” I say, smiling to hide the pain of my years in the wilderness. “My friend told me you were here, and I wanted to see you.” Satisfied with my response, together we pause, breathing the fresh air, as the traffic hums quietly behind us. 

His bright blue eyes mirror mine - yet I had forgotten that he reminds me of my grandfather, small in stature with a cheekiness and strength of character that is rapidly diminishing. The breeze is gentle in the garden, the silver beet on its second flush. I ask if he’d like me to visit again, and he nods vigorously. Returning inside, the others are now spaced out at a square table already having a cuppa, so I guide him in that direction, catching the nurse’s eye. 

As I start to leave, he turns his cheek and I plant a kiss, and give him a quick hug. Two pairs of blue eyes sparkle, with joy, with tears, with aroha. This is the long goodbye.