Your Final Autumn

The golden autumn of your death

looms large in my memory of this year.

The drive through the hills.

The gathering dread of the sight of you - fading.

Relief at the welcoming flicker of recognition.

Your stricken shamble -

Your soul, still strong,in it's faltering shell.

The baby smell of your naked head.

The shuffle to the garden.

We stand, warming our backs in the waning sunlight

as it struggles to earth

through the forest that is your sanctuary.

We play with the hens.

I say to you - 'Catch him',

You say - "City mouse doesn't know the difference

between a 'she' and a 'he' chook!"

We laugh together

For the last time.

Seasonal Update

Dear Jen & Dad -


I dug in the garden today -
found some little potatoes
nestled there, in the earth.
Remember when we harvested potatoes
and found baby mice nests? The baby mice
looked like beagle puppies...


Planted grosse lisse tomatoes - 
your favourite, Dad. A bit early,
but put some in, like you showed me.
A hole, filled with water, a slurry of
blood and bone, firmed down around the roots.


I pruned the lemon tree you gave me, Jen.
The last trim it had - you did.


The day before you left us Jen, 
I hacked back the bougainvillea.
Something to do as I wept for you,
slipping away from us
in your bed in the mountains.
Today, while gathering the prunings
I found the earring I lost.
The ones you said you liked
that last day we spent on earth together.
They matched my scarf, you said.
That I was always good with colour.
Thank you for finding the strength
to gift me with this memory,
while your life was ebbing from you.


I sat beneath the umbrella at the table after gardening.
The rain came.
I saw your hands, Dad.
The way they looked at the close of the day.
But they were my hands -
caked with dried earth.


Picking some baby broad beans in the soft drizzle,
I ate them, still warm from the mother-stem.
You'd have loved them, both of you.
The sweet, bright beans
snuggled down inside the furry pod.


We loved the earth, us three
and in my simple, city plot
we communed together; 
you sweetly haunting me,
this early spring afternoon
in the gentle, misty rain.

The Visit

It's the wrong hospital room.
Covered in rain, an armful of green roses, 
I peer at you in bed.
An old man? A foetus? A bald boy? A baby bird?
Not you, my sister!
Your mouth - it's your mouth.
I touch you, your blue eyes open - too soon -
before I'm composed.
It's you, in there.
Slowly, you return to the world.
Memory vague, gentle laughing.
I prattle, hiding my horror at the change in you
these last ten weeks.
A seizure. Calcium deficiency. No brain tumour.
You can't remember yesterday.
Can't recall the name of the designer whose dress you'll wear
to your daugher's wedding.
Then, later, suddenly - Carla Zampatti.
Your armpits are scarred.
Cancer.
Your wig is in a bag at the bed's foot.
'It's beautiful. How much?'
Your lips are crusted, I give you my lipbalm.
Doctors and nurses are beautiful, you say.
It's their job.
You point, saying 'The lace on your top.
It's like the lace on your bear - when we were kids.'
Supper comes - vaccuum sealed orange juice.
Ditto cookies. 
Remember Akta-Vite, I say.
I open your juice - a struggle, like on an aeroplane.
The juice spits onto the table. 
More gentle laughing.
The nurse brings a carafe for the green roses.
We talk of our children, grandchildren. Christmas.
Your arms are brown, but with the muscle gone.
You're getting tired.
I don't want to leave you by yourself, here.


You say -
I won't know.
I'll be asleep.

A Matter of Priorities...

I still resent the way

your final months prior to confinement

Did not include me.

The precious people you chose

to share your precious time with,

were other folk.

People you paid to help you.

Not for you my humble offering

of laughter and sisterly love.

Kineasiologists, buddhists, oncologists

and charlatans

were your lunch dates.

You drove past my door

to give them your money -

to pay them to lie to you.

Did they expect payment

for attending your funeral too?

Were they absent

Because they were unsure

Where they should send their invoice?

Or that perhaps someone

may request a refund?

Relentless Memories

There's a red enamel jug filled with jonquils

this book I'm writing in right now

the painting hanging over my fireplace

oil lamps on my mantlepiece

photos of us together, laughing, on my piano

your christmas gift - a lemon tree - in my garden

your daughter's voice to me on the phone

your recipes in my book

your letters on my laptop

your books in my library

your candlesticks on my table

your face on your daughter

How will i ever compose myself

Now that you're gone?

Sisters

'We were like a flock of birds with the same soul, wearing the same feathers...'

A Letter to Jenni

The full moon rose last night.

The first one since you left us.

The first time you were not here to greet her

in 55 years.

When you rode away on her back -

Where did she take you?

Where did you dismount her silvery spine

And, luggage free,

Begin your spiral dance

among the stars?

Eulogy for my sister

These are the things I'm going to miss about my sister.

Laughing. Not normal laughing.

Heart-stopping, gut-aching, eyes- streaming laughing.

About something nobody else finds funny.

Triggered by nothing more than a look or a word.

Often late at night, over the phone.

It's a sister thing.

Selfishly - having a witness to my life.

To call her, recount an incident from our past,

and know she was there - to confirm my reality.

I didn't make it up.

To be on my side.

Ocean swimming, naked. In the winter, at daybreak.

Exchanging looks at the mutual sight of a baby

without socks or a hat.

Or being bottle fed.

The way she spoke to dogs in the street.

Being grandmothers together.

Her magnificent Christmas fruit cakes.

The way she fought for me.

Put people in their place who questioned my choices in life.

Her fierce loyalty for things and people she loved.

She'll always be with me.

We were cut from the same cloth.

Sculpted from the same block of marble.

Cradled in the same womb.

I'll remember her always

when I eat a ripe fig

pat a cute dog

or see a brown chook.

Requiem for my sister, Jenni Overend

My sister passed away last full moon. She said she would. Said she'd fly away on the back of the full moon. These are the words she lived by.

'Conventional knowledge is death to our souls

and it is not really ours.

We must become ignorant of what we've been taught,

and be, instead, bewildered.

Run from what's profitable and comfortable.

If you drink those liqueurs,

you'll spill the spring water of your real life.

Forget safety. Live where you fear to live.

Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.

I have tried prudent planning long enough.

From now on, I'll be mad.' Rumi