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The silence is broken. George died on Monday the 7th and since then I haven’t said a word. Today I said something to the TV. I don’t know what I said but it doesn’t matter.
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I’d like to go to Montmartre and walk those hilly streets again, and climb up to that church, the Basilica of Sacré-Cœur, and look down on the Bastille Day fireworks. George released me to do these things. He said, “You go, you’re free to go now.”
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I’ll go away, George, I will. I’ll rent a flat and go. But for now, the hatches are to be battened down, the windows pulled closed, the lights dimmed and the doors sealed off. But then... I hear the trams go along their tracks and I know it’s daytime – I know the time because in the dawning hours 6
the sound is soft and singular and in the evening it is hard and heavy.
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Everyone will forget me. They’ve already forgotten you, George – forgotten your round little paws and beautiful caramel ears and lovely and beautiful man-nose and yellow belly and big, brown dots. They’ve forgotten all that. But I won’t forget – not ever, George – not ever. 9
I’ve pined this week but I won’t pine anymore. No more pining, no more of it, I say, no more tears. Not even the singe of the skin at the eyes, not even the drop of moisture at the corners. I won’t cry now, George. You’ve gone but I haven’t. You released me and went gently to heaven. Gently your body sank 10
down onto the bed, and even though you were so frightened you laid yourself down, and down and down. I liked the way you relaxed your hungry and tired body on your side. I felt your flat shoulder and your soft neck and little ears and I knew you had said your goodbyes and drifted up and 11
right away. I’m crying now George, but I will stop soon. I promise I will. Now, even now, look George, I’ve stopped.
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I washed the door jamb where you used to rub your neck and I’ve put your things away.
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I’m sorry for pushing you aside last week, George. You wanted to say goodbye and I wanted to write my paper. Still, I know you understand why I did that. I hope you’re having a gentle life in heaven – better than here. I’m certain you are – especially
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after all that trouble with your kidneys. You know I’ll watch all your favourite shows, and I’ll tell them to you from my bed. I can dream a dream and you will see it. I know that you alone know my dreams. Goodbye, for now, my beautiful, lovely fellow. (You can read this if you want). 17
GOODBYE GEORGE © 2015 BY ROBERTA SHAW, PUBLISHED BY STORYSHOP. AVAILABLE ONLINE AT WWW.STORYSHOP.COM.AU
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