Cellphone reception is rubbish where I live. It’s to do with having a bouncing signal and a mountain in the way.
Consequently, on the farm my phone rarely rings by day and almost never at night when normally the only sounds come from gigantic crickets under my bedroom window and sometimes the all-night bellow of a mama cow searching in heartbroken vain for the calf that The Dairy Farmer has that day wrenched from her breast.
So if my phone does shriek at 2AM I respond the way I did when I lived alone on a property in the Big Smoke and would wake from a funnynoiseinthenight.
My heart goes nuts and flings itself wildly against the bars of its cage. Adrenalin thunders. Sweat pours. Eyes bulge. Ears roar with terror.
My cell rang very late the other night and my system embarked on its full dance routine. When my heart stopped hurling itself painfully into my ribcage, I listened. From Belfast in Northern Ireland, a voice said that Ruth, a beloved family friend who we knew since I was five, had gone.
I’ve sometimes wondered if, when I die and they do an autopsy, the doctor won’t say,
“Haibo! Students, look here now. Not only was this heart broken in many places, but it also had multiple, very tiny but perfectly formed heart attacks throughout its adult life. Lovely. Hand me that pickling jar.”
Then my dear old heart will bob around gently in this big bottle on a shelf in a lab somewhere. Occasionally med students will zoom in through the glass and stare at me and say, “Check this old fossil. Sis, what a mess, hey?”
They’ll notice the raw gash that Ruth’s leaving has torn in it, even though I know she was tired and sick of hospital walls. So instead of that scene, I’ll imagine she walked with me down to the river on the farm. It’s a bright morning, the way it looked today when I went for my run, with lacy mist rising, green willow trees and waist high grass. I hear her gravelly Ulster voice and feel a quick squeeze. “Bye-bye, my wee love” and she steps into the water, sloshing happily across. Then, wringing out the hem of her skirt, she grins triumphantly from the other side. Happy travels, Ruth.
Consequently, on the farm my phone rarely rings by day and almost never at night when normally the only sounds come from gigantic crickets under my bedroom window and sometimes the all-night bellow of a mama cow searching in heartbroken vain for the calf that The Dairy Farmer has that day wrenched from her breast.
So if my phone does shriek at 2AM I respond the way I did when I lived alone on a property in the Big Smoke and would wake from a funnynoiseinthenight.
My heart goes nuts and flings itself wildly against the bars of its cage. Adrenalin thunders. Sweat pours. Eyes bulge. Ears roar with terror.
My cell rang very late the other night and my system embarked on its full dance routine. When my heart stopped hurling itself painfully into my ribcage, I listened. From Belfast in Northern Ireland, a voice said that Ruth, a beloved family friend who we knew since I was five, had gone.
I’ve sometimes wondered if, when I die and they do an autopsy, the doctor won’t say,
“Haibo! Students, look here now. Not only was this heart broken in many places, but it also had multiple, very tiny but perfectly formed heart attacks throughout its adult life. Lovely. Hand me that pickling jar.”
Then my dear old heart will bob around gently in this big bottle on a shelf in a lab somewhere. Occasionally med students will zoom in through the glass and stare at me and say, “Check this old fossil. Sis, what a mess, hey?”
They’ll notice the raw gash that Ruth’s leaving has torn in it, even though I know she was tired and sick of hospital walls. So instead of that scene, I’ll imagine she walked with me down to the river on the farm. It’s a bright morning, the way it looked today when I went for my run, with lacy mist rising, green willow trees and waist high grass. I hear her gravelly Ulster voice and feel a quick squeeze. “Bye-bye, my wee love” and she steps into the water, sloshing happily across. Then, wringing out the hem of her skirt, she grins triumphantly from the other side. Happy travels, Ruth.
1 comment:
Thanks Bev for your comments. It was a very hard call to make as I knew how much you meant to each other(her 4th daughter). When she went I was sad, not for her but for me. It happened as she wanted it to happen, quickly. No long hospital stay, not house bound.As you said we have as a family been intertwined for may years. I think of all the positive things that happened that she and I looked back on ( Drive-in, horse riding at the RLI, maurading garden boys ( Tanya literally not able to run fast enough to save her life), 'Ock Please Daddy won't you take us to the drive-in',bagpipes, fighting bushfires, Cranborne Rocks,wine with dinner, the Templetons.) Mum would be pleased of the mention and the sentiment and yes, if she is out on a 'wee message', she will drop in to see you.
Sean
All the best to your Mum,Dad, brothers and your family.
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