It's Still Life

A Journal of Thoughts from Last Week

The I in Time

It was a few weeks ago, over lunch. Talking about when we were young, old times and that the world seemed easier back then, although it wasn’t. Less complicated, maybe. Our husbands worked together. Wives supported each other when our insular world turned bleak, we looked after each other’s children, nursed each other when ill, fled countries when war or revolution or chaos forced us to grab a small bag of essentials (do you remember where you kept your bag of essentials, I asked her … and she says under the bed … I kept mine by the front door in a cupboard, I say). “Did you know,” she says as she finishes the last of the wine in her glass, “that Miriam is dead?” I have a small chunk of chicken breast on my fork, and I stare it, my face freezes, I’m unable to think … or say anything other than… What? And she says that Miriam was in hospital in Sarawak for a month before she died. And I feel my eyes tearing over, I can’t see the chicken or the fork. and a tear plummets into my salad … and she says, “Yes, and Tessa died earlier this year also.” And the fork falls out of my hand and bounces off the plate on to the floor … and she says, “No, worries, I’ll fetch you another.”

And I remember that there was (to me) nameless piano music wandering the air like an escaped feather from a pillow, and while she was fetching another fork from the kitchen, my vision cleared just long enough to see a framed photograph on the bookshelf of Miriam, Tessa, Val and me, and we’re all walking on a beach in Côte d’Ivoire’s Gulf of Guinea. Lisbet isn’t in the photo, although she was always with us.

Lisbet and I are in touch with each other weekly. Facebook. Instagram. She’s not interested in knowing who’s dying or already dead. She’s the kind of friend that protects your sanity and keeps your heart safe.

The B&W photo is of Miriam. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.