That Goodbye Feeling

This week I said goodbye to Margaret, my dearest friend, in the way a funeral offers, my hand on her coffin, offering her a final thought, a question, maybe a stupid one, ‘are you ok?’

I don’t mind goodbyes, it’s just the walking away afterwards that’s hard, no looking back, no one to see, but a memory of her, and an empty chair, and that awful, hollow sense of loss. I loved her, still do, because love doesn’t stop just because time has had its way.

Margaret wasn’t one to profess her love, not like we all do, all the time, but she didn’t hold back from showing it, if she could help someone, she would, and she did, she saw the good in people, and the glimmer of light on even the darkest days. Like so many who lived through the War Years, she felt lucky to be alive, happy for another day, the best kind of person.

The funeral had hymns, and psalms, and a tribute, and prayers, and a poem read by the oldest granddaughter, read perfectly, on the edge, with a steely look of huge sadness, resolute, then the flash of a smile, then a moment of raw pain, tears just held off, and the last line, slightly rushed, to get through it, in little more than a whisper, yet crystal clear, and I’ll never forget it, let’s hope. Dear Reader, if you only read one thing more this year, let’s say apart from my weekly blog (!), make it When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou.

After the funeral, standing around, looking at the flowers and messages, hugging people with tears in their eyes, I met K, one of Margaret’s distant cousins, who’s recovering from a severe stroke, with some movement problems, and having to learn to speak again, and I can only wonder about the depth of her love, because she’s there, brave as tigers, the inspiration of the day. Dear Reader, even on the darkest, sad days, there’s something there for you, something that will help.

Later, around midnight, right in the hollow there was a new feeling, something happened in my mind, something illogical, an unlocking, some sense of emotional and spiritual openness, and a flashback of an unending journey.

So, I was up all night, with coffee aplenty, smoking, with a pencil, writing like crazy, about life, love and motivation, and other things that matter to me, like how can I help, what I must remember to tell my kids, should I carry on talking to the tree, why did my eyes change colour that time, how do I love my violent neighbour, how to sell a pen, should I stay or should I go, and then I wrote the ending to my new book, The Healer, which I’ve been struggling with for months.

I fell asleep as the sun came up, my head on my notebook, pencil still in hand, woke up a couple of hours later, and the portal had almost closed, and I was almost the same as ever, happy, scared, excited, hopeful, but now something new, wanting to be better.

All week I’ve been remembering something about Margaret, and I know I’ll forget it, so here it is.

I saw her a few days before she died, and she was railing about this and that, mostly why she had to watch so much television, although I know she secretly loved it, and then about the magic show I performed in her care home, and if I ever worried a trick would go wrong, and then laughing, and saying, “When I’m departed, I won’t be worried about anything” and she dead-eyed me, and smiled “And, I’ll be young again.”

May it be so, Margaret (1930-2024), I’m lucky to have known you.