After the funeral I wander down the bush track. Branches catch at my hair and spiky grasses sting my legs. Whip birds begin their sharp cries, sounding as vicious as their name. Cicadas break into their chorus, din into my ears. A kookaburra chortles somewhere in the trees. And then I come across a little hollow full of soft native grasses. The cicadas stop…the silence like an exclamation mark. Bird sounds die away. All is still and silent. The surrounding green sooths like waters of an emerald sea. No movement. No sounds.
I feel at last I am at one with nature and my husband's spirit is near.
in the quiet dell
one yellow butterfly ...
a camera clicks
My moment is over. Aunt Flora has followed me, with her expensive camera hanging around her neck.
I let her lead me to the house for afternoon tea and sherry "as a civilized person should celebrate the wake," she scolds kindly.