Bargaining

I’m filling up online shopping baskets. Skimming multiple sites simultaneously. It’s the rush of colour co-ordination I’m after. My eyes narrow their focus onto measurements and diameter.

What a bargain. I might need that.

Click.

The menthol-infused, hair-blowing mists of nothingness chasing dopamine release. I’m everywhere and nowhere at once. Digital omnipotence and a limitless spend for my imagination.

My belongings have been in storage for nine months. I’ve been living out of a suitcase. Tending to mum led to the discovery that I don’t really need much of anything. My matching suitcases are stacked like remnants of former hopes and I make do with camp furniture, covered with sarongs.

Mum loves a fake Queen Anne piece. The fragile curtains are working from a distance. They tend to perish on touch.

I spent four months cleaning up what the professionals should have done. Mum now thinks the place looks bigger. It’s amazing the difference a reflective surface makes.

The pruning of life can be ferocious. Much like my shopping baskets. Too big, too wide, what will I require for tomorrow, next week or three years’ time. I’m reading the reviews and I’m loving it. The one stars are my favourite. The simplicity of dissatisfaction.

“Nope”

“Don’t”

“Beware”

If only life came with a review system, I’d be set. Mum’s in the other room tending to her own age. The forgetfulness increases and the shopping reminds me I have a future as I spend a while looking death in the eye.

Things have changed. The air has shifted. Mum smells different. Sweeter. Her movement lessens. She sparkles when she sleeps and diminishes on waking.

Oh death. I know you well my friend. I can tell when you have come to visit. You never knock, do you. You lurk and watch. Yet there is nothing sinister about you. For you are kind and gentle. You offer a smooth journey and I am grateful for it.

You watch me cook dinner. Cutting mushrooms, I watch you watch me. I’d invite you in except for this veil that divides us all. You smile at me knowingly and I feel your apology in my heart.

It makes the tears thicker and warmer somehow. Like blood and water have shifted roles. I see what I am made of when you’re here. I reach for you and you vanish in an instant.

I am hoping you can show me your diary. A schedule. Something that points to how I can best prepare. Both of us.

Most of all me.

These shelves are so symmetrical. The ability to pile everything that hurts neatly into zip lock bags. Labelled with expiry dates that come too soon.

There are many ways to neaten up a life through packing solutions and cleverness. Unlimited folding techniques surely lead to neater outcomes. Is that how I stuff it all back in?

Take the air out and keep things small. Flatten your life and layer it three by three. Add a pop of colour and you’re successful. That’s YouTube worthy, that is. I’m loving it. I’m loving myself. Everything fits. I can label it. It’s sweet. No need for reminders here. Zippers and transparency are doing their jobs.

I find a pack of noodles. It’s the salt that I’m after. I feel your breath and the way you change a room. Like when you let the air out of the container after making lunch. Don’t look at her. Look at me. Come closer to me. I have more life. More of the good stuff. Talk to me.

Pffooooof.

It’s the oxygen that’s the killer. Oxidation is your bridge, isn’t it. You turn and look at her again. Your gaze is fixed and she is welcoming you like an old friend.

I was talking. I’m over here. Look at me!

I’m the one talking all the time and demanding your attention. Please leave her alone and stay with me. We can be friends, death, you and me. I know life intimately. You’ve met me before. Friends, family and three close calls of my own.

I feel her relief when you are near. It’s not conscious. It’s like water going down a sink. Gravity. So much gravity.

Is this why we are grave?

It gets so physically painful sometimes. You know? The air gets knocked out of me with my thoughts, I end up in the loop. A meditation of ancestry through unrealistic expectations.

“Why don’t you rest, dear?” asks mum. “You look tired.”

She can’t even see me. She feels it. Some days I feel the tears take my energy with it. The shelving will bring neatness and no rough edges. The way I like it. Got to keep checking those expiry dates.

I spent four years working in palliative care. I used to joke that I was so boring they were dying to get away. It was a surprisingly popular joke. “Oh I haven’t thought of it like that before”.

The first two years I had to excuse myself and have a cry. It took me ages to realise I was having an allergic reaction to the amount of love I felt in the room. Was I really so closed down?

Nurses said it was the angels.

I hear mum whisper to hers and I cut so many onions these days as a decoy. It works well. I use silence to distance the separateness of life, and of my wants, and of being a daughter. Are you an angel?

I’ve been crying for more than a year.

A year.

I got through today until 7:52pm. That’s a new record. It must be that dopamine hit from the pretty suction hooks. They look designer.

The tears are stuck in my lower lids like crescent moons. If I squint, they don’t drop down my cheeks. I want to keep these ones, to reabsorb. I can pick my delivery dates with these orders. I like a notification. I’m still looking at expiry dates.

I wonder if angels go shopping for those who will be in their care?