the specks of him travelling
We spend all of February working on the transmigration.
We are moving the books to preserve the memories in them, the thoughts on the pages. We secretly place the books in other stores, around the city.
At night, when I can’t sleep, I think about those books, and I like the thought that Michael’s copy of Great Expectations now belongs to someone else. They are reading Michael’s thoughts – his passion for Sophia, in the passion Pip had for Estella. His passion is there in his underlining, in his notes, in the inscription on the title page.
In April, Henry drives us all to Sea Ridge. We are returning to scatter Cal’s ashes. Lola, George and Martin are in the back of the van. Rose is following in her car. Frederick and Michael and Sophia are coming too.
We will take them to the water and let the current have them. I will love the idea that a speck of Cal might make it to Mexico, given the right weather and conditions. I’ll think about this over the years, the specks of him travelling.
Hiroko is in New York, but we’re playing the CD of her and Lola’s musical history as we drive. I’m not thinking about endings, though. I’m thinking about beginnings. Rose has agreed that Mum and Gran and me can all live with her next year, while I do Year 12 again. She’s started building walls in the warehouse, in preparation. Each room, because of the way it’s designed, leads into another room, though. Rose doesn’t love the idea, but she’s coming around to the fact that she and Gran will be connected.
Henry puts his hand on my knee as I wait for the water to appear – first in small triangles and then in deep scoops. Henry is worried, because I’m going back to the water, to where I lost Cal. It will be fine and it won’t be. It will be terrible and good.
The past is with me; the present is here. The future is unmapped and changeable. Ours for the imagining: spreading out before us. Sunlight-filled, deep blue, and the darkness.