I know you were here tonight.
I noticed you in the sudden chill in the air and I knew it was you settling in around
me like a mysterious unseen veil, flaunting your wily wares at my sleeplessness,
wanting to have a conversation at the most inappropriate hour.
Then, you always did pour it out regardless.
You must be pleased to know that I was compelled to write this prose to honour the occasion.
The last time I saw you in this lifetime, you were laying there, a wisened fragile form, still a cheeky monkey vainly trying to cheat death right to the end.
And me, your death celebrant, egging you on, sprouting poetry, cajoling and encouraging.
A transition musician with a full to the brim bag of tricks, singing, reciting, murmuring.
As always, the counsellor and conciliator to you, my mother.
Your coach in life; your coach in death.
But this time my words hung between us, lingering and melancholy, resounding in the echoes of your staggered breathing.
And you were well on your reluctant journey’s way.
As Dionne Warwick sang “Say A Little Prayer”, we joined together in harmony, you in your quiet spirit way, me melodiously alive with unleashed tears of love and loss streaming from weary eyes.
Tibetan poems of the dead, poems of passing over, songs of love and belonging, forbidden incense in the nursing home ensuite.
My favourite, most sacred Indian shawl shrouding your wilted, world-weary body.
Nothing was spared for the majesty of your passing.
2.55am 12th July 2011