Breaking through paper

On Coping #33

Your funeral is tomorrow.

.

Yesterday 

we assembled the kids’ outfits.

Bright and colourful 

as instructed.

.

As well you know

everything I own is blue or black

so mine is a work in progress.

.

This morning 

I tell our children what will happen.

.

I show them the order of service.

The photos of you we will share.

The picture of us all on the beach.

.

We listen to the music that will play.

And read the lyrics.

.

They indulge me singing along.

A rare occurrence.

.

I play them the piece you brought back from Mexico that you chose for the start of the service:

Oceans (Where Feet May Fail) by Hillsong United & Taya.

The song I listen to as I write this.

.

I am yours 

And you are mine.

.

I will call upon your name

And keep my eyes above the waves.

.

The old Bm / G / D / A chord progression 

working it’s emotional magic.

.

Then

while they’re eating their breakfast

I read them your eulogy.

.

The one I showed you two days before you died.

.

The one I knew you approved of

because you didn’t correct it.

.

I tell them

I’m going to read this to you.

It’s what I will say at the funeral tomorrow.

.

Okay

they say.

.

It’s ten minutes long

I say.

.

Really?

they say.

.

Yes really.

I say.

.

Budding dramaturgs.

.

Okay

they say.

.

I tell them to shout out any words they don’t know the meaning of and I’ll come back to them at the end.

But there are only a handful.

.

Courtship.

Spreadsheet.

Yearned.

Collude.

Render.

Litany.

.

Carcinoma.

.

I reach the bit I always knew was going to be the hardest to read.

.

The bit about them.

The bit about the bits of you that are them.

.

This woman we love is

.

Then six words.

Just six words out of 970.

.

I can barely say the first two.

In fact

I find that I can barely breathe.

.

They sit at our kitchen table watching me.

They stop eating their cereal.

.

I try again.

Six words.

.

Come on.

.

I get as far as word two.

.

It’s like the travellator.

You’re watching thinking

Come on.

It’s just an uphill treadmill.

Come on.

You’re nearly at the top.

.

And then they stumble

and fall.

.

Get up

you will them.

.

Get up.

.

Arthur rises first.

He walks over

and wraps his arms around me.

Then Audrey.

Then Orson.

.

They hold me.

I breathe again.

And I try once more.

.

This woman we love is

.

Audrey’s head.

.

Breathe.

.

Arthur’s heart.

.

Squeeze.

.

Breathe.

.

Orson’s soul.

.

Cereal gets soggy.

Poached eggs overcook.

Toast pops and sits cooling.

.

Did you write that daddy?

Yes I did.

Well done.

Thank you.

Yeah

well done daddy.

.

All of a sudden the dog lets out a long groan that means 

I’m bored of this let me out 

but actually sounds spookily like:

.

Awwww.

.

They are in fits of giggles.

Her first word 

Orson says.

.

And for a moment

the loneliness of the last four weeks lifts.

Because somewhere 

in the middle of these bodies

these hearts

pressed together

crying and laughing

is you.

.

Where you always were.

.

I grab the rope

and swing through the paper.

.

Afterwards

I stand motionless in the kitchen

while they put their bowls and plates and knives and spoons in the dishwasher.

.

They brush their teeth.

Put their shoes on.

Their coats

and bags.

.

I stand.

.

Bye daddy.

Bye baby.

.

By daddy.

Bye baby.

.

Bye daddy.

By baby.

.

See you tonight.

.

They walk themselves to school.

.

Let me walk upon the waters

Wherever you would call me.

Take me deeper than 

My feet could ever wander.

.

I stand.

Previous > On Coping #32: Darling it’s me | Next > On Coping #34: No words today

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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.  It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.

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