Leaves in autumn
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