The Last Time We Spoke

There are moments in my life that haven't felt important at the time. Days that seemed unimportant. A conversation, a visit, a quiet exchange of words, all ordinary. You don't mark them. You just assume that they'll be others.

That Christmas morning when we spoke, fleeting. I in a rush to sort out the kids. Getting them ready to travel to my brothers for Christmas Day. You and I we could talk another day. There was a lightness in the air, the excitement of Christmas morning, but something beneath it too, something I just couldn't or wouldn't see at the time.

You told me about the watch you had bought yourself as a Christmas present. It should have sounded like a small, practical thing. But it didn't. It had a sadness. As though time itself had become something you were suddenly aware of, something you wanted to hold onto.

We said we would speak again on New Year's Day. It was said simply. Casually. But looking back now, I realise there was a quiet understanding beneath it. One that I didn't fully understand at the time.

I remember the last time we met. You in your bathrobe, sitting on my sofa.

Your leg the colour of alabaster, the telltale signs of something failing.

''Still taking your medication?'' I said. You looked at me, with tenderness in your rheumy eyes. '' Doen't matter anymore lovey.'' you replied. '' When I'm dead, I'm dead.''

I remember when we last spoke. It was a clear, crisp Christmas morning.

My heart ached as you said, '' I bought myself a watch for Christmas.''

Time, It seemed, was the only thing left to keep you company.

'' We'll talk New Year's Day.'' I said, but already there was a feeling of a blackness I sometimes get when death is close at hand.

I remember walking home from work, a night shift done.

That was when the call came.

Your race was run.

They wanted to take your leg. Your answer was no. '' I came in with two, and that's the way I'm leaving.''

What is this life all about, the bed in which I lie?

I really don't understand. Maybe I will when I die.

Grief it doesn't always come in loud waves.

Sometimes it comes quietly, in moments you do not expect. In passing thoughts. Some other person in the distance that looks just like them. A sentence a word. You think that's just what they used to say.

I think about that watch often.

Not because of what it was, but because of what it meant. A marking of time. A quiet acknowledgement of something coming to an end.

We can speak so easily about '' the next time.'' The next visit . The next call. The next conversation. How many times have you said the same yourself?

But sometimes there isn't one.

And we do not always know it when we are in it. That we are standing in the final moment, speaking the last words, hearing a voice for the last time.

Left thinking to ourselves, but they were only just here 3 days ago. Would we do things differently. Say to ourselves it's okay if I'm late for Christmas dinner. There will be others. Knowing that this might be the only one moment you have to talk to someone for the last time. One precious moment.

Or is it that life only reveals the meaning of those moments once they have already passed?

I still do not have the answer.

Maybe one day when my race is run I will.