Transition

My laptop, lying open upon its desk, its screen coated with the dust of the four weeks that had elapsed since my unexpected death, was perhaps the most nostalgic thing in the room. It was a repository of memories—its photographs, stories and even financial information were a catalogue of the achievements and failures, the highs and lows, the family and friends, who had melded to form the unique experience that had been my life.

Had been?

Why did I think of my life in the past tense when, obviously, I was still here. I may no longer have been inconvenienced by a body, grown tired by too many weary years, but I was obviously still alive, albeit in a different form. Cogito ergo sum. Thank you, Monsieur Descartes: I think, therefore I am. With that realisation the sadness lifted and, for the first time, I felt free to leave this tiny room of books and memorabilia.

I heard footsteps coming up the front stairs and the sound of voices. "Can we go and see the fish, Mummy?" and, without waiting for permission, small feet scampered toward the big pond with its assortment of goldfish and Japanese Koi, as their mother, my grand-daughter, found her keys and let herself into the house where she would take the first steps toward clearing away my belongings

This was the time I had been dreading—the time when my home would no longer be my home. It had to be sold, that's true, and with my neighbour's property, itself long unoccupied, would probably be demolished and replaced by town houses; even so, it felt as though a part of me, of the life I had shared there with my family, would go with it.

To my surprise the dread was no longer there. Together with the completely irrational belief that I was dead (Cogito ergo sum: cling to that thought!) that had confined me to this room, I now realised that I had no further need of all that had once been so necessary. It was time to move on.

I made my way toward the back door and then outside for a last look at the garden before leaving; it was ablaze with the colour of azaleas and camellias. The beds needed weeding after a month of inattention, the lawn, fast growing in the Spring sunshine, needed cutting, and the leeks in the vegetable patch had gone to seed, but it didn't really matter anymore.

As I paused by the sandstone bridge that crossed the landscaped stream, still running under the power of its electric pump, I became aware of a rhythmic squeaking from the rear of the garage. The garden swing was rocking gently. I turned to see why and there she sat, smiling a welcome. "You took your time," she said.

I don't know what I should have expected but she looked just the same as when I'd last seen her—her smile as wide, her eyes sparkling—and yet, within that aging appearance I could also catch glimpses of all the women she'd ever been. There was the little girl I recognised only from photographs, the young woman I had first met, the dancer, the athlete, the lover, the companion—all there in one body. It wasn't as much a kaleidoscope of people as an ability to see her as she had been at any particular period I chose to bring into focus.

"Have you been waiting long?" I asked.

"Not long," she said. "Four weeks, as we used to count time. It's different now. There is no time. You'll get used to it."

"So what's next? Do you know the way?"

"To go where?" She smiled again. "Surely you're not thinking about pearly gates and great white thrones?"

I grinned a bit sheepishly. "I suppose I was. What shall we do then?"

"Let's go for a walk, just like we used to do. It'll be fun. And, this time, your feet won't hurt."

Hand-in-hand we walked from our garden and as we went I hummed a few bars from A Daisy a Day. I plucked a camellia and handed it to her. "It's not a daisy," I said, "but, right now, it's the best I can do."