Today is the day of Bryce’s funeral. I didn’t go. (It’s a long story for another day).
I’m sitting on the balcony, still marvelling at daylight at 7.30pm (I adore daylight savings).
I’ve poured a vino and started Helen Garner’s Diaries 1995 - 1998. A christmas gift from my boss after I borrowed her original (1977) copy of Monkey Grip.
I’m after a copy of The First Stone. I’m not sure what I think about these diaries yet.
I’m agitated. End of year. Restless. Listless.
The birds are going ballistic in the surrounding trees. And by ballistic I probably mean noisy. Tweeting, chirping, whistling, warbling, carolling and so on.
Damascus the big ol’ cat is sleeping at my feet. He’s wandered over from Bekky’s place, two doors over. He’s like my grand baby and gets spoiled accordingly.
I put the book down and grab a diary and pencil. And then put that down and grab the laptop. I’m not sure what I’m doing yet. Is this note taking, a diary entry or just an email to a friend? Fucked if I know. But it’s writing. That’s all that matters. I kid myself I’ll do more writing, but then life gets in the way. And doubts. And another year passes. And then a friend dies and you start to think about the dwindling time you have left. And what you want to do with it.
What I really want is a “Room of one’s own’. A play room. To create. To play. To explore. To photograph. To write. To explore. To sew. To stitch. To ignore. To sit. To Think. To read. To make mess. To rearrange.
To do nothing. To be.
I spent all of Bryce’s last day with him. Of course, neither of us knew it would be his last day.
We had plans. I had a list.
It was a shock.
Grief packs a punch.
Today I made a caramel slice in his honour. I don’t know why. I mean, I know why I chose a caramel slice because we have a long history of sampling and comparing. And sharing. So I get the connection. But I’ve never made one before. I could’ve just gone and bought one. It would probably taste better. There’s something in the making that matters. I haven’t figured out what it is. Just that it was important.
The birdsong is a bit like listening to Jazz. Seems a bit disjointed to me. I don’t feel sophisticated enough to appreciate jazz. I prefer blues.
How do we find joy?
There’s so much heartache and tragedy.
5 children died falling off a wayward fucking jumping castle. I can’t comprehend the grief.
My friends mother died. She lives in Perth, the mum. My friend is in Melbourne. Her Mum had an aneurysm and had two brain ops. She woke, confused, disoriented and panicked, believing she was a child again who’d been stolen and taken into care. And I still hear people say they should just get over it.
My friend got knocked back for a border pass twice. Fucking covid. Third time lucky, because her mum was critical. Not expected to make it.
She has to isolate. She gets checked 3 times a day. Her white boyfriend doesn’t get checked once.
And her Mum does pass. She’s the same age as my Mum.
Bryce had multiple complications after nearly dying from a melanoma in the lung four years ago. But what killed him was not being able to breath. The pulmonary fibrosis. He never lost his sense of humour though.
I don’t make friends easily. I’ll miss Bryce. He was one of the good ones.
I have renamed the Caramel Slice ‘Bryce’s Slice’.
Thanks for listening.
Deb
Next day now. (You can see Helen Garner’s Diaries influence, can’t you).
I find I don’t want to leave the house. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to stay secluded in my black hole. It’s not all grief. Some of it is fear and practicalities. With over a thousand cases of covid each day I don’t want to risk not being able to get on a plane next week to get to Qld to see my boy and my Mum.
I did take some still life shots because Bryce would be happy that I’m taking photos.
