This is the length of our last conversation. Her, disappearing. Her, thinner. Yet in each photograph sent, her grin is wide like the Atlantic and Pacific put together. It contains all the beauty and unknown things that anchor in those oceans. There is also a tiredness around her eyes, like luggage. But how her laughter still persists, shall always resist: heartache tsunami.

She rings, looking for Mum, even though Mum flew to England to be with her, two months earlier. After seven rounds of chemotherapy, my sister's husband told us the new diagnosis: early cancer-related dementia.

Now, on the phone, my sister forgets why we are speaking, so she wishes me Happy Holidays! I realise, in that instance, how far along she is. We talk about fashion instead. The death of Alexander McQueen. The impossibility of buying decent fitting white jeans.

She wishes me Happy Holidays! Again. She asks if the presents arrived. I reply they have. Not they did. I tell her how, for the first time, I learnt the shape of her husband's handwriting. She says she bought a pair of white Alexander McQueen jeans. Things cost several hundred quid and the bloody things didn't fit. She tells me how she keeps on losing weight. I ask if she's checked behind the fridge.

 

 

 

 

She wishes me Happy Holidays! A third time. We reminisce. I'm sorry if I was ever mean to you she says. In the end, she went down the high street shops, bought a pair of white jeans for a couple of quid. They fit perfect. Or at least, did. She keeps on losing weight. I tell her to check beneath the couch.

She wishes me Happy Holidays! A fourth time. My water levels are rising. I cannot stop the seiche. I smile, hide grimace. She does not hear how I am crying. I cannot see how she is dying. I ride the tide of mighty ocean breath: I am the space between wave and bed. The phone a shell held to my head. In my ear, her voice, crashing.

When she wishes me Happy Holidays! a final time, I don't have the heart to tell her it's February. Then we hear Mum's voice, on her end, calling out that she's back from the shops. My sister hurries off. I tell her I love you so much and always will, always should have. She laughs I'm not going anywhere, silly.

In our click, disconnecting, I check time on handset: thirty-two minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Three weeks before her death. The ocean widens between us: sea is just water trying to heave itself up off the floor, save itself from drowning. I tighten the belt around these memories, lest I lose them, forget.

 

 

 

Scott-Patrick Mitchell is a non-binary poet, writer and performer whose debut collection of poetry, Clean, was shortlisted for the 2023 Prime Minister's Literary Awards, the 2023 Western Australian Premier's Book Awards and the 2023 Victorian Premier's Literary Awards.

 

 

© Scott-Patrick Mitchell

 

Published in Once: A selection of short short stories by Night Parrot Press (2020)

 

www.nightparrotpress.com