Last year on Dec 1st I arrived in Jo'burg and in the back pack hostel I got the news from her son, I'd been dreading, but expecting, that my dearest friend Val had died two hours before. The night before I left, I'd been to the hospital and said goodbye although by then she looked at me with far away eyes. 'Don't worry about me, I'm in Paradise' were her last words to me (she was a staunch and loving Christian in every good sense of the word).. I held her hand so briefly, told her I loved her and then left. I had a flight to catch, booked and planned from months before. I nearly cancelled but was going on a month long Buddhist retreat and losing her felt like mental collapse. The retreat, in the end, did save me from that, the quiet, the reflection, the peace of an isolated rural location. Retreats can be hard as its always a challenge being with a new group of people. But I made some new very dear friends there who I'm still in touch with.
Her loss is still so shocking and the grief still feels raw for me and for my daughters. She was closer than family. All the time I hear her voice, her dear, bantering, naughty, teasing Irish voice, talking to me, in my head, commenting in her usual ascerbic way on aspects of my life. She was the repository of secrets never repeated, she was fanatical about not repeating or discussing other peoples business and expected the same high standards (often not so rigorously kept) from her few close friends. Her son was the centre of her universe, she would have lain on nails for him. She loved my poetry - a few weeks before she died, not realising how much pain she was in, I read her some poems, which she loved to hear and always gave mountains of encouragement about. A few weeks ... if only I'd known how little time we had left together. I took her to a hospital appointment on my birthday in late October and her son (damn and blast) had texted her while on the appointment to remind her it was my birthday as he'd seen it on FB. While I was fetching the car, she dragged herself over to a stall to buy me a scarf, which I'll always hold dear.
Tomorrow we will all attend her memorial mass. Here's the poem that I wrote on Dec 7th 2014 for her - for the funeral - I was on the retreat, chanting all day for her soul to fly to the bardo realms and for a happy rebirth. Om mani padme hum dear Val. Here's the poem:
‘Oh there y’are,’ you’ll say.
‘You took your time.’
So it’s been ages … let’s go down to Costa’s
or the World for our cappuccino
‘Hmm,’ I’ll say …’and
we could share a carrot cake, yeh?’
‘Grand,’ you’ll say.
customers and clients
when we were younger.
Pas at school, Jonathan and Tam
running naked, splashing in the sun.
slipped and fell, bumped their head …
Kiss, kiss it better. Want an ice lolly? Twister?
at each other, remembering our golden children
… that’s what it’ll be like.
won’t you, Val?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
After the memorial, her sister (who's very Irish fey), said to me 'Val says 'Yes!'' That cracked me up...
Her loss is still so shocking and the grief still feels raw for me and for my daughters. She was closer than family. All the time I hear her voice, her dear, bantering, naughty, teasing Irish voice, talking to me, in my head, commenting in her usual ascerbic way on aspects of my life. She was the repository of secrets never repeated, she was fanatical about not repeating or discussing other peoples business and expected the same high standards (often not so rigorously kept) from her few close friends. Her son was the centre of her universe, she would have lain on nails for him. She loved my poetry - a few weeks before she died, not realising how much pain she was in, I read her some poems, which she loved to hear and always gave mountains of encouragement about. A few weeks ... if only I'd known how little time we had left together. I took her to a hospital appointment on my birthday in late October and her son (damn and blast) had texted her while on the appointment to remind her it was my birthday as he'd seen it on FB. While I was fetching the car, she dragged herself over to a stall to buy me a scarf, which I'll always hold dear.
Tomorrow we will all attend her memorial mass. Here's the poem that I wrote on Dec 7th 2014 for her - for the funeral - I was on the retreat, chanting all day for her soul to fly to the bardo realms and for a happy rebirth. Om mani padme hum dear Val. Here's the poem:
You’ll be waiting
You’ll be waiting when I
go,
cracking your Irish jokes‘Oh there y’are,’ you’ll say.
‘You took your time.’
I’ll say, ‘What’d’ya mean,
y’old bag, you Irish
potato, you left me first you know.So it’s been ages … let’s go down to Costa’s
or the World for our cappuccino
I’m paying this time, so
don’t argue.’
‘Y’are not,’ you’ll say, ‘I am’...‘Hmm,’ I’ll say …’and
we could share a carrot cake, yeh?’
‘Grand,’ you’ll say.
And then we’ll be jawing
on,
two hours’ll fly by, talking
of days in jobs, customers and clients
when we were younger.
We’ll talk of days in
Priory Park,
meeting at the toddler’s
pool,Pas at school, Jonathan and Tam
running naked, splashing in the sun.
and us drinking coffee, chatting,
laughing …
One of them comes crying –
slipped and fell, bumped their head …
Kiss, kiss it better. Want an ice lolly? Twister?
Soon running round
laughing again.
And me and you, smile
knowinglyat each other, remembering our golden children
… that’s what it’ll be like.
You’ll be waiting,
one day when I get up
there,won’t you, Val?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
After the memorial, her sister (who's very Irish fey), said to me 'Val says 'Yes!'' That cracked me up...
