A game of ClueBo

We heard the news on a Sunday.

‘So fitting’, I had thought to myself dryly, a little smile dancing wistfully on my face at a memory of you, dressed in your ill-fitting suit, sitting in your favoured spot, on the aisle at the front of the flock. Blue veined hands holding tightly to your hymn book, your voice always strongest, proudly loudest when your favourite part of the verse was being sung.

‘It was painless,’ they had said, and in which we’d taken much comfort in that night, all the while swiping away at stubborn tears that continued to fall. Feeling my old friend ‘guilt’ creeping back in, almost clockwork style, steadily sitting at about a 10-minute mark. The gnawing feeling washing over me, falsely believing there was always time until well, until there just isn’t. Glasses fogging over. Those later years of only fleeting visits and calls, citing excuses to leave the phone swiftly or not visiting over the holidays. The daily humdrum of everyday life getting in the way. Swallowing over and over, trying to rid the lump that continued to reside in the back of my throat. Sleep was my refuge that night.

We spent Monday on technology – and what felt like endless phone calls from family and your friends, officials who took over, plans being made, then scratched; then changed again to suit everyone else but you. The tears came back often.

I started writing this journal to you on Tuesday. A little brown leathered book. Alleviating my anguish, pouring my emotion onto the paper. It had been left in the drawer unused for a reason perhaps. Thoughts return to you singing in church while I write. I know you’re with me somehow.

We drove out to your farm on Wednesday. The old red barn behind the main house I had loved to explore every Summer as a child, now faded from neglect, the salmon coloured primer seen easily now in the mid afternnon sunlight. Reminiscing, my heart jumped, seeing it again after so many years. Memories of you lovingly brushing Raven's mane after our long rides as a child to the boundary creek washed over me. My eyes misted over.

Heavy hearts and sad faces awaited us on the porch. ‘The fences could do with some tending’ someone had offered. ‘Oh, how he would love to see us all together again,’ my Aunt had mused out loud to no one in particular. In a somber line, we dutifully walked through the front door.

A man in a charcoal suit I didn’t recognize stood in front of the fireplace in the sitting room, a black binder in his hands. Eye contact and small smiles greeted us as we ushered inside to find a seat. The only one who seemed genuinely buoyant was this stranger in your home.

Taking my place in your armchair by the bay window, the familiar scent of leather hit me... and fresh coffee beans. I realized I suddenly needed another to stay focused. Someone offered me a cup from a tray, which I gratefully accepted.

‘Thank-you to all of you for coming today,’ the man in the suit began. He spoke of you in glowing terms, in your home to your family and friends, of which I found ironic, given he was a stranger to us all. He was just doing his job of course, but my mind was beginning to wander.

The uncomfortable truth was we all had been somewhat distant from you over the years, and yet, here we were now; without you, but because of you. I reached for my coffee cup again.

‘...and so, in accordance with Beauregard’s expressed wishes for his earthly possessions and effects to be divided between his loved ones’, continued the man with the binder, ‘You are instructed to search the property, for your individual bequeathed item, listed here; using this as your guide.' He held up a piece of paper taken from his binder. It was a map of the property and a columned list, hand scrawled in your distinctive handwriting.

I sat a little straighter in your chair, my mind suddenly sharper than it had been since the haze of last Sunday. ‘What was this? A treasure hunt? A game of Cluedo for grown-ups? With paradox amusement, I realised what fun you must have had in creating this, ever the cheeky one. I scanned the room to gauge reactions, and was met with looks of confusion on faces, wry smiles, and a few muttering to each other inaudibly.

The paper was passed around the room. I found my name, determined not to compare mine with other family members chattels, and read the words “bronze statue” in the sitting room. This room? Well at least I didn’t have to search far, I thought ruefully, feeling some unease about what was next.

The suited man moved toward an Uncle in the doorway to answer a question. It was then that I saw it. Placed on the mantel over the fireplace, sitting next to the gold domed clock that chimed every hour on the hour since 1982. Its wings were folded, standing tall and mounted to its large base, its large heart shaped head facing the room. I stared at it. It was staring straight back at me. ..

‘What is that Poppy?’ I had asked you once, in a hushed tone. Unnervingly I had felt its amber glass eyes watching me as I moved around the room. It had seemed enormous then, maybe more so when aged 8 and only 4ft tall. I had forgotten about it, until this moment, and wondered why of all items, would you want me to have this?

Moving towards the mantle, I felt my husbands hand on my shoulder as I reached to pick it up.

...‘It is my most prized possession in the whole world Athena,’ you had said. ‘This is Bo the Barn Owl. Your wonderful grandma bought this for protection when we first purchased the old farm. Bo is our very own guardian spirit...' I recalled the memory now, your blue eyes twinkling at me with merriment, words left hanging in the air, as though there was much more to the story than you had shared.

It was then, with that little snippet of childhood memory intact, now viewed through the lens of an adult, I understood. The floodgates opened and my nemesis called guilt, now morphed into spontaneous joyous abandon. Laughing out loud between sobs over the barn owl statue you called Bo.

Symbolically, through your gift, you are with me still. Watching over and protecting my family. What a truly wonderful man of many layers you are Poppy ‘Bo’ Beauregard.

Looking down at the statue now in my hands, I saw that one of the little glass marbles was missing. Was he winking at me?