Bluestone
Here I sit—
on a rock,
At the edge of
the rest of
my days.
This liminal place,
Bluestone Bay.
Luminous granite.
Whipped clouds run
up the banks
of cherry trees laid low
by wind.
Turquoise shallows
betray sandy depths.
Pippis sprinkle
a thousand miniature
boulders.
The sun tries,
and fails, here.
But it is over there,
on the rough sea;
Illuminating the light
that is somewhere, for
sometime.
Here I sit—
on a rock
At the edge of
the rest of
my days.
I don’t want
to leave
you.
BlueStone Bay is where Mick wanted his ashes scattered. He’d written this in his Will. He had also indicated the songs we’d sing at his memorial service. He’d put together an eclectic playlist called ‘The Final Gathering’ for his own wake. He was more prepared to die than I’d given him credit for. This made some decisions easier in the wake of his sudden death. The three girls decided to keep him with us at home until they have all left. Then one day, when grown and flown the coup, together we’ll scatter his ashes there, in BlueStone Bay.
One year on, I decided to walk into the bay and sit in this place he loved so much. It felt so good and hard and raw and wrong to be there. It was a moody day. The clouds hung low and dispersing with the whimsical cool sea breeze also pushing away the sun’s attempt to settle. Not a soul was to be seen. Yet the spirit of Mick was so present. Every second spent there was a heart-wrenching gift.
Those moments felt like the beginning of the rest of my life. Here, I cried and cried; for all that was lost and all that I still need to find.
They were moments that pierced time more fully than usual, and left an indelible mark. It felt like I could touch him on the soft fungi growing on the rough granite rocks and hear him call through the gulls flying low on the uplift of air thermals over the water. I didn’t want to leave. The sun burst through. Not here where I sat, not now; but over there, just out of reach. I knew it would again one day, in my life too. I was ready.
