Go gentle
by Sascha Morrell
Vision dims as the day dies and the rocky slope runs crumbling into the sea. It’s barely winter, but already the wind has turned on us. We stand shoulder to shoulder in its salt sting. You stood taller than me once but now you hunch, Galapagan. Your face is creased with lost years.
I wonder how many times we have stood here facing the horizon, tracing the line where the sea meets the sky. From this spot, we used to think we could make out the curve of the world. Now I imagine how it will roll on without you, and how I will have to go on with everything eroding, blowing cold, falling away.
And yet they say the sea is getting warm.
Even when the winds are big, the gulls hold onto the headland. More of them every year. They huddle on the grass, dotting the slope where the hard air ruffles their feathers. They seem to mourn with me, rending the air with white cries.
I take your hand. Come on now. I lead you inside like a child, leaving behind what is left of the view.
*
I microwave two frozen meals, put out two placemats, the water jug, cups and cutlery, your medication. I fasten the big napkin around your neck. You watch me with a wary, watery gaze that turns me into a stranger. I’m getting used to it now, this look, where your eyes seem to grieve for all they have seen and forgotten, straining and searching my face for something they no longer recognize.
There is none of your mumbling tonight, no moaning protest. But you are slow. You struggle with the cutlery, years knotting in your knuckles. As usual I chat away, though tonight you don’t listen. I talk about the time you saw Halley’s Comet, your Morris Minor, the time your dad shook hands with Neil Armstrong.
I try to remember your memories. Every day I tell them to you like stories and sometimes, just for a moment, you seem to resurface, rising to meet me. I get a glimpse of you, urgent and fleeting, then it fades. Not tonight.
On the table before us is a vase of everlastings.
I treasure the terrible time we have left. I treasure the giddying tilt of your decline.
*
After the late news, leaving you adrift in your recliner, I step outside for some fresh air. The wind has died down slightly and I wander out a little from the house, barefoot in the wet grass. The sky is a dull, heavy gloom. It is as if the sea’s boom and roar has no source, and there is neither headland nor horizon, no edges and no end.
I move forward by blind instinct, with a careful, uncertain tread. My presence unsettles the gulls. Then the breeze picks up in a sudden gust and two of the birds lift their wings, then four or five, revealing their whiteness in flight. In the dark they might be doves, except they’re screaming.
Sascha Morrell reads, writes, teaches, and scrambles over rocks on the Northern Tablelands of New South Wales, Australia. She completed her doctoral studies at the University of Cambridge and taught English at the University of New England (Australia). She has published short fiction and poetry in numerous British and Australian literary journals. Her latest creative work explores the relationship between human beings and moths. This story was originally published in Grieve.
by Sascha Morrell
Vision dims as the day dies and the rocky slope runs crumbling into the sea. It’s barely winter, but already the wind has turned on us. We stand shoulder to shoulder in its salt sting. You stood taller than me once but now you hunch, Galapagan. Your face is creased with lost years.
I wonder how many times we have stood here facing the horizon, tracing the line where the sea meets the sky. From this spot, we used to think we could make out the curve of the world. Now I imagine how it will roll on without you, and how I will have to go on with everything eroding, blowing cold, falling away.
And yet they say the sea is getting warm.
Even when the winds are big, the gulls hold onto the headland. More of them every year. They huddle on the grass, dotting the slope where the hard air ruffles their feathers. They seem to mourn with me, rending the air with white cries.
I take your hand. Come on now. I lead you inside like a child, leaving behind what is left of the view.
*
I microwave two frozen meals, put out two placemats, the water jug, cups and cutlery, your medication. I fasten the big napkin around your neck. You watch me with a wary, watery gaze that turns me into a stranger. I’m getting used to it now, this look, where your eyes seem to grieve for all they have seen and forgotten, straining and searching my face for something they no longer recognize.
There is none of your mumbling tonight, no moaning protest. But you are slow. You struggle with the cutlery, years knotting in your knuckles. As usual I chat away, though tonight you don’t listen. I talk about the time you saw Halley’s Comet, your Morris Minor, the time your dad shook hands with Neil Armstrong.
I try to remember your memories. Every day I tell them to you like stories and sometimes, just for a moment, you seem to resurface, rising to meet me. I get a glimpse of you, urgent and fleeting, then it fades. Not tonight.
On the table before us is a vase of everlastings.
I treasure the terrible time we have left. I treasure the giddying tilt of your decline.
*
After the late news, leaving you adrift in your recliner, I step outside for some fresh air. The wind has died down slightly and I wander out a little from the house, barefoot in the wet grass. The sky is a dull, heavy gloom. It is as if the sea’s boom and roar has no source, and there is neither headland nor horizon, no edges and no end.
I move forward by blind instinct, with a careful, uncertain tread. My presence unsettles the gulls. Then the breeze picks up in a sudden gust and two of the birds lift their wings, then four or five, revealing their whiteness in flight. In the dark they might be doves, except they’re screaming.
Sascha Morrell reads, writes, teaches, and scrambles over rocks on the Northern Tablelands of New South Wales, Australia. She completed her doctoral studies at the University of Cambridge and taught English at the University of New England (Australia). She has published short fiction and poetry in numerous British and Australian literary journals. Her latest creative work explores the relationship between human beings and moths. This story was originally published in Grieve.