You have gone. A week ago, silently and on your own.
They say they found you, head tilted to one side and your mouth open. As if to let the spirit out, back to God.
The old man said that he watched you (your form, your shape) for a while from the door, as the carer ran to call the doctor. He then turned and shuffled back to his chair in the lounge and waited. I wonder if he cried, or if he wanted too.
Your room is empty without you. All the pictures have been taken down and the bed has been stripped of the bedding.
Now it is simply an empty space.
There is nothing there that reminds me of you, except the wax bust on the bedside table beside the window.
I wonder where you are now, what you are doing.
Do you have your healthy young body back? Are you doing the things that made you happy as a girl?
We are still a ways away from winter, but already I feel the approaching changes. I hope for a delay. I know your passing is not the end, but just the start of something else. Your leaving, though, so long in coming will be a sudden collapse, an empty bed and a silent room. I have known, I have seen the slow decline, yet each day has dulled the need to prepare. I have always thought that you will be here.
So much is intertwined with you, wound up in you and it is perhaps this release, this untangling which makes it so much harder. I have a picture of you, lying in bed, looking sideways out the window. It is not my favourite picture, but it is one I do remember. Perhaps it is the silent fragility I saw, entering your bedroom, your calm peace. I trace the line, the way that you have come and I see the happiness that you offered and I am better for knowing you. But still, I do not wish for you to go. I have a child with your name that you still need to meet. Your leaving will grieve me, it will be my loss, but for you, it shall be your gain, your release. That, I cannot deny you.