Ad Acta

About the journey we never want to face.

Hawtorn V. Rabot knows things about algorithms and how to break them. He also said something that made me sit up:

Stop being safe. Write that thing. Write about the thing that you hold close, that’s personal, that’s real. Write the fucking thing.

So, here I am. Wrote this, last night, in one sweep, minor edits. Raw, it’s ready. No overthinking. Just a little ditty about death. TW: Yes, death, or dying.

***

Ad Acta

The road spits up spray and mud, leaves fling themselves at the windscreen, as if they want to come along in this journey no one wants to make. Speed limits just a guideline, at least tonight; they must make it, they have to make it. For it is a matter of dying, or death

She hates herself for not reading between the lines. Why must there be lines to read between, when simple phrases, those reality hits, are harder truths, but softer to bear, in the end

If they’d said he was not long for this world, then she would have made provisions, bought less provisions. Planned the unplannable

Instead, they sat, exhausted, all three of them, finally able to pause a year of vitriol and the mundane, hundreds upon thousands of tasks wrapping them in a tornado of tumultuous hums of what turned out to be, for the most part, unremarkable

She’d been consumed, by unpaid bills and car tax, copy books and exams, car trouble and driving tests, refusal and retaliation, and digs and digs and digs. And then, there was the pull of Christmas. With its stocking fillers, and side dishes, cards, decorations, tokens, plants and wine, and Christmas parties she was loathe to partake in, and yet, the life of a hermit had no merits, and yet, held so many

Out into the world they had to go, smiles, interrupted, and yet, on they went, and on they went, and on, and on

Finally, Christmas Eve had come too soon, and phone calls were made, and assurances too, that he was home for the holidays, and so, the guilt appeased, flights in basket, almost booked. Almost never won the race. They would enjoy the Christmas, and January was another month

But here they were, hurtling up the motorway, less than a day of hasty preparations. A daughter brought to Cork, was then collected when the call came; four hours of driving they could have put to better use, or left sooner, taken an earlier flight, maybe, maybe, made it, maybe

The Dublin flight almost broke her; the distance, the stress of it, not knowing, but in motion, finally, they were in motion, every mile a step closer to home, or a place called thus at least, before. It was tepid at best; she’d never felt the draw, and had never gone back. 19 years of her life, ad acta, erased, not forgotten, yet not idly remembered

They visited, of course. Three generations mean something to most, and they tried to find meaning, in moments, steeped in the shadows of what had gone before

All this didn’t matter, now, as the wind picked up, and so did their speed, even now they seemed to be barely moving, barely putting miles between them and the hike from whence they’d come, and the unfamiliar home they were driving towards. Only overloaded trucks, making late deliveries, or early ones, were their companions. Kicking up spray that lingered, and a drag that tried to suck them into their path. She strained her eyes as she gripped the wheel, kept adrift by the noise of the rain-whipped panes and the eek-ew, eek-ew of the wiper blades, as on and on they went, and on and on, and on

At midnight she was still bagging turkey pieces, almost whole, hastily dissected, while one packed bags, another making makeshift lists, and the quiet question no one asked, but each answered in their in minds. Black outfits may be needed and therefore would be packed, concealed, in case their inclusion might bring about the conclusion not one of them would wish for. Or might bring on a quicker demise, if one was superstitious. Do not tempt fate. But maybe fate has other plans. Maybe

Another hour done and two yet to go; the tiredness was starting to hit as she made a mental checklist: had they switched off the lights, the iron, locked the doors. In transit more plans were made; the dogs had to be tended to, the potatoes left out, forgotten, and must be taken in by a caring neighbour, and the decorations on the outside trees, switched off

She welcomed the short stop at the toll booth, at ca. 1:33, eyes heavy, she sipped a coke and drummed her hands and pinched her face and hoped and hoped; but there was no traffic, and they were waved onwards, quickly, no rest, she kept the windows down, the rain driving in and her passengers, half snoozing, protesting. Windows went up and the foot went down, and on they sped, and on and on, and on

The last half hour almost the worst; it was four in the morning now, and sleep would not be had, nor sustenance; the time had run out to make and pack the sandwiches and so, they lived in hope for an open shop, a deli or a café

The car deposited, they shuttled to the terminus, always the same gate, from which they had departed so many times before. Queues of holiday makers snaked between snack bars and boarding gates and they took it in turns to hold gaps in the line, purchasing much needed food, yet morsels hung suspended in their throats

The last three seats meant they had separate rows and belts, but maybe that was a blessing, as each sat, with their own thoughts, falling into an uneasy sleep as the plane ascended the greying skies

And suddenly, the landing gear extended and the gong told them that there were ten minutes to landing, hearts hopping, the brother waiting at the gate

As they unbuckled, she turned to find her daughters with a tentative smile, both awake and haggard, like herself, the rain had stopped as the messages came in:

‘He died. 1:33 last night.’

At Portlaoise, the toll booth tolled the bell.

I turn and catch the eye of my eldest, who knows, she knows, just by the look on my face, and all I can do, across the yellow and blue rows, is shake my head, and the tears burst forth and I wipe my eyes, wipe my eyes, and then it doesn’t matter, and they flow.

My youngest has seen me look at my phone and freeze, hand suspended, head shaking, over and over. It can’t be. We’re here. It can’t be. It just can’t be.

I wait for them at the foot of the steps and we walk in, sobbing and we don’t care, people staring, whispering, and why does the sun have the audacity to shine, why is Christmas still happening when my Dad, my darling Dad, has died?

Don’t they know that he is gone, that he will never return? That we came, but we were too late, and that I will never forgive myself for hesitating, all those decisions, every day, all day, incessant, incessant, bang bang bang, do this, do that, should we go? No he’s ok? He’s back home? OK, decision made. Let’s have Christmas. Let’s have Christmas. At home. As planned. We need it. The doctors convene on 4th January. We will come then. I will go, maybe before. Turkey or duck? Gratin or roasties? Soap or wine? He’s fine, he’s fine, we’ll wait, let’s have Christmas. At least we’ll have Christmas.

Except, we never will, again.

We were too late. We were too late. Eyes streaming at passport control and for once, they wave us through, and there he is, my brother, and it seers through my stomach how much he’s like Dad, he has his hair, his fine head of hair, he had it till the end, my Dad, at least I think he did, it’s been too long.

He takes our bags and we follow him, and he walks just like him, it’s like a mirage, but this is my brother, and he’s turned into him, or maybe he always was. And I never saw it.

My girls are inconsolable, and so we walk and hold each other up as we pile into the car and drive and drive, onwards, not home, but to my father’s last room, back in hospital. Just a fall, it was just a fall, but then it wasn’t. It was his last.

My brother pulls in at the hospital and we follow him; he knows where to go and I don’t want to think and I don’t want to decide, I just want to follow.

My mother is standing there, holding my Dad’s hand and it’s out of place and wrong; she never held his hand when he was alive.

My father is lying there, just lying there, waxen. He doesn’t look like him, they always say that, they never look like themselves, but Jesus. He looks like dad and he looks like a shadow of himself. Madame Tussaud’s, that’s where they got the idea, dead people. I suddenly have this irrepressible urge to giggle, but then I remember where I am and I remember that my dear Dad is dead. My Dad is dead.

No. It can’t be. He can’t be gone, I run to his bedside and sob.

Sorry Dad, sorry, we didn’t make it, we were too late. Sorry, Dad. Sorry. Sorry.

It’s the first time my girls have seen death, and it hits them hard. My thought was that they need to see him, I never got to see my grandmother, who died when I was their age. But maybe that was wrong, wrong decision, wrong decision. They’re old enough now, or are they, are we ever, are we ever old enough, when are we ever old enough to comprehend that someone who walked and talked and sang The Gambler with my eldest on the phone only two days ago, is gone.

How can he be gone?

Where is he gone?

Why, why, why the fuck is he gone?

His face is cold to the touch and he is here and yet he’s not. The cancer took him, and we didn’t know he had it, the silent killer, they call it that, and maybe it’s fitting, because he was always the quiet man. A man of few words but most of them were golden.

Goodbye, my darling dad, goodbye now. Rest well, and we hope that you’re at peace now.

Goodbye, my darling dad.

And on we go. And on and on we go.

In memory of Dr. Eugene Joseph Cooper, 15.06.1941 - 27.12.2023