Threnody

 

He looks like a bird of prey – sharp features in profile. Lips

and eyes shut unnaturally tight. Skin shrunken over form.

There is nothing of my dad here. It takes me a long time to

find the courage to touch him – to stroke his brow how I

imagined I would – I know he will be cold – I am afraid.

​

He is cold – ice cold – no softness in the skin – it feels like

marble – clean, polished, cold, hard stone – and damp.

Tentatively I check his hand – maybe I could curl my finger

beneath his – no – this entire body is carved from one slab.

This isn't rigor mortis – that should have passed by now – I

think it’s because he's been frozen like meat in a freezer.

They’ve closed his jaw – tight – maybe they tied a ribbon

beneath his jaw and over the top of his head – and how come

his eyes and lips seem to turn inward? What pressure did

that? Internal – external? Bushy eyebrows – I remember hair

grows after you die – ahh – but his hair – it's so soft and I love

its whiteness.

​

my god this music is awful                                   

turn it off                                   

ignore it                                   

​

Mum said when she saw Aunty Dell's body she looked like an

angel. Dad doesn’t look like an angel – even with his own

face he doesn't look like himself. I am reminded of a portrait

of his grandfather – also Frederick – his face was like Dad’s

only his eyes were hard, severe – maybe this corpse could

pass for Dad’s granddad.

​

So this 'magnificent man' (I loved Paddy for calling him that)

was mortal. It seems unreal that I thought he wouldn't die –

of course I knew he would – but I'm still shocked. Before this

he was beautiful – very handsome once – but always

beautiful. There is none of that beauty here. This is an

epiphany for me – the beauty that was/is my dad was that

lovely spirit that brought his lu to life. This is the most

important thing and I'm not sure what it means and I don't

know the words or how to name it – but I feel warmed,

reassured – caressed into the fold

​

into the fold

​

And I'm using the word 'lu' for the first time. It's someone

else's word – The Tibetan Buddhists call their body lu – the

package that you leave behind. I remember the first time I

read this I laughed, imagining how differently we would view

existence if we referred to our body as baggage.

​

And now I stroke his hair and brow – I say my words to him

that I have said every time I see him – even though he isn't

there/here. I kiss his lu goodbye.

​

When I walk outside, the day is warm – still lu dreaming I get

into the car and see in my mind’s eye the Tibetan monks

dismembering a body – burning juniper on the side of a

mountain and laughing together. They are preparing to take

it to a place to feed the birds. Apparently this practice is

declining, and as a result the vulture population is also

declining. I once wondered how they could detach

themselves from the body they were dismembering – but

after seeing Dad’s corpse this is no longer a mystery to me. I

admire them for so generously feeding the birds and helping

the body re-enter the food chain.

​

Driving home – the sky is so big – I love it here – feel the pull

of this land that made me.

​

All bathed in a warm glow – even the landscape is golden.

​

Nine windmills – one of them is working.

​

Through Millthorpe – the road is patterned with shadows of

the grand old trees arching over the road. Graveyard and

church on the left, the fields where mum’s great aunts once

ran a dairy on the right. Mum’s childhood school on the

corner. On my last trip through that wise young boy told me

that unlike his place, this place feels like it’s morning all day

until it’s evening and then the sun sets.

​

I notice it feels like morning.

​

It’s un –

​

unreal – unnatural – uncharacteristically mild, warm and dry

every day – no rain. There’s another drought meeting next

week.

​

This place –

​

Where do you go after you die? Where were you before you

were born? Where is he?

​

The trees on the hill on the other side of the valley cast a

shadow that is exactly the same height and shape as the

trees themselves – a reflection – all in silhouette. Do their

roots have the same shape as this shadow drawing? The

invisible made visible – its roots exposed – our roots

exposed. And then I drive past that point and the perfect

symmetry is destroyed – the magic gone.

​

​

In the centre of the dining table – a pile of rose petals at the

base of an arrangement

little shell shaped cups fallen into – onto – each other

deepest red with the tiniest dash of yellow and white

at the throat of each petal.

The promise of a velvety touch –

delicate

so easily bruised.

​

Rose petals showering over skin

flowing in cascades

silk rippling

a kiss

a feather brush

pink and red from inside darkness

their scent

​

beautiful

sweet and sad

his colour

red.

​

janelle mendham DARK CAVE #2