Tiny Stories

My mother leaves in autumn. It is not text book dying, pain carefully managed in a contemporary setting, but a struggle for her to go. The nursing staff are kind, but there is only so much you can do at the end without breaking the laws of our country. I think about birthing, the intense but somehow worthy pain of labour, and wonder if death is the same, hard work to let ourselves go, stubbornness and fear slowing the process. We drive across the region, wineries and orchards marking the space between the twin cities. He chooses the Cadillac, mum’s last ride the classiest of her life. There are just the three of us: me sitting oddly on the right minus a steering wheel to hold; mum in the back, her koru-crested casket a nod to simplicity. When we arrive, I place the flowers from my friend’s garden on top of the poem, grateful for their colour and compassion. “If I die in autumn”, I begin as I stand beside her at the catafalque. It’s a couple of days short, but she wouldn’t mind. Already...

I wake, fragments of my dream swirling in my head. I want to capture it before it escapes, and there it is: crockery, chocolates, my family and an odd feeling of frustration and discomfort. Later I realise the images have spiralled into my mind as the anniversary nears. No, not the 10 year anniversary of the Christchurch quakes, though they fall on the same day. Mine is less public, a private commemoration after a year of great loss. Grief is not what I thought it was, and I wonder why it’s taken me so long to understand this. Anniversaries are tough, the first the toughest. Each year, a little less, with perspective, with gratitude. We fight to remember, and yet we begin to forget. At times, grief hits us with a force greater than gravity, the sternum painfully radiating the hurt. Other days, we are calm and still, a peace descending. But anniversaries - yes, anniversaries are tough. She makes suggestions, my friend, an experienced celebrant, a woman of compassion and practicality. P...