Honestly, it’s a sigh of relief.
It’s the exhale of air from deep within, which has been hanging in your chest – and weighing on your mind - for far too long now.
It’s the feeling of breathlessness and being able to breathe again, all in one.
I feel breathless, yet a can breathe.
I can breathe.
I. Can. Breathe.
I can breathe, yet I can’t weep.
To let that first tear fall is almost too much.
Too much, too soon.
And I can feel it again – that tense and tight movement in my chest, willing me to hold my breath.
To hold it, so I don’t weep.
It’s all I tell myself.
Don’t weep. Do not weep.
But you take that breath.
And you weep.
Your mind is overcome by the emotion of it all, so you just weep.
The body shakes, the heart breaks.
And then, you breathe.
It was the phone call that I knew was coming. "It could be days or weeks", but I knew it would be here before too long.
And it's funny, because you almost seem to know that this is the call. When I saw the screen light up, I just knew.
Being semi-estranged from your family does that, I guess. You assume that most news, is bad news.
Perhaps, 6:30am was really the giveaway?
Shirley Alison Thomson, you were one special lady.
Strong-willed and opinionated you wore the pant(y-hose) for sure, and no one looked better in coral lipstick than you.
Though that terrorizing, fucking nasty disease was much more than you deserved, I will hold dear those memories of one splendidly-batty old woman - who stashed (and forgot about) several McDonald's Whipped Butters in her purse, almost had had us headed on an express train for Hervey Bay, and swore that she was "not old enough to have children" at her husbands 70th Birthday party. Your mind was unkind to you, and perhaps we could have done more. Understood more, sympathised more.
Now, you suffer no more.
So, here we are. One less in this clan.
Almost 3 years to the day, since we lost Papa,
your darling gentleman.
May you be at peace. Together again.