- 1 year ago
Days before she died, after attending the opening of her art exhibition, she insisted on walking back home, alone. She asked me not to fuss. Her last walk home.
At gatherings and parties when she felt nothing more need be said, she’d quietly leave. This was “the meld”. One minute she was there, the next gone.
One morning on our verandah, she held my hand. “Life, this life I have, is like a party. And I’m just going to meld. One day. And it will be okay. And I always enjoy the lovely walk home.” And she smiled."