In the end it had been quick.

Oh they’d known it was coming of course, the cancer diagnosis had been over five years previous, inoperable they said, given that the old man was, at eighty eight, well, old, everyone just accepted that. There wasn’t a timetable, it could be three weeks or three years, to have five was something of a bonus, sort of.

All the family had taken a pragmatic approach, to all intents and purposes ignoring the Elephant and getting on with life. For his part, the Old Man certainly didn’t let it trouble him too much, after all when you are approaching four score and ten, the end is already galloping towards you right? So there were holidays, excursions and survival of the Covid Pandemic, it almost seemed that he was immortal.

Until that is, he wasn’t. A fall, a broken bone, we didn’t know it then but the gig was up. Oh it started well enough, he was soon back on his feet but recovery seemed to have stalled, the bone had knit but the mobility went into reverse.

And so, was it just three months ago, further tests revealed the cancer had spread, the gig was up. I’d like to say the Old Man was stoical about this development but he was no hero, he’d cheated mortality for more than ninety three years, seen five monarchs, a world war and raised a family. I think he’d convinced himself that he had more time, that the doctors were wrong but the family braced themselves, phone calls and visits were made, would it be mere days or longer?

Then it was over. During the day the Old Man had been quite cheerful, joking with the staff, not that he’d ever been much of a comedian, but then he wasn’t.

That was a month ago now, there hasn’t been any sort of funeral, the Old Man thought them a waste so he was cremated, the ashes to be spread where we stood and did the same for his wife seven years ago, a favourite spot for them both. Most of his affairs have been settled, his worldly goods disposed of, not that he left much behind. From humble beginnings he’d lived for the now with little ambition to climb the social order, that there was any ‘inheritance’ surprised everyone.

Penny Potter sat in the airy space that is the IKEA restaurant, the hum of chatter washing over her as she nursed her coffee. ‘Technically I’m an orphan now’, she mused, ‘can you be an orphan the wrong side of sixty?’ the thought brought a slight smile to her face, something that had been rare since the Old Man had passed.

It was there only briefly, the worry of the previous months, the time spent sorting everything since and the guilt quickly pushing the moment of humour away. The guilt continued to gnaw at her, guilt that she’d not been there at the end, guilt of missed opportunities to talk, to be there in the Old Man’s hour of need. She’d tried but in the end events overtook her and now those questions, the exchange of information from one generation to the next would never be finished.

There was no doubt that she’d done her best, everyone said so but that didn’t help with the sense of loss and regret. A single tear ran down her face followed by a bout of sniffles, she didn’t see the looks from other patrons as she tried to prevent the deluge waiting in her tear ducts. The coffee was cold, she’d been sat there for nigh on an hour, was it over now? Could this be the end of the pretence, the act that had been going on for half a century?

Maddy Bell © 23.08.2024