off then.’ Arthur nodded to Rosaleen.
She jumped up out of her chair as though a finger had poked up through the straw. ‘Don’t forget your flask.’ She hurried about the kitchen as though there was a time bomb. ‘Here you go.’ She handed him a flask and a lunchbox.
I couldn’t help but smile, watching that. It should have been weird, her treating him like a child going off to school, but it wasn’t. It was nice.
‘Do you want some of this for your lunchbox?’ I asked, pointing at the plate of food before me. ‘There’s no way in the world I’m going to eat it.’
I meant that comment to be nice. I meant that I couldn’t eat it because of the quantity, not because of the taste, but it came out wrong. Or it came out right but was taken up wrong. I don’t know. Anyway, I didn’t want to waste the food. I wanted to share it with Arthur for his cute little lunchbox, but it was as though I’d punched Rosaleen in the stomach again.
‘Ara go on, I’ll have some of it so,’ Arthur said, and I felt like he was saying it just to make Rosaleen happy.
Rosaleen’s cheeks pinked as she fussed around in a drawer for another Tupperware box.
‘It’s really lovely, Rosaleen, honestly, but I just don’t eat this much breakfast usually.’ I couldn’t believe such an issue was being made of the breakfast.
‘Of course, of course,’ she nodded emphatically as though she was so stupid not to have known this. She scooped it up and put it into the little plastic tub. And then Arthur was gone.
While I was still sitting at the table trying to get through thethree thousand slices of toast that could easily have been used to rebuild the castle, Rosaleen collected the tray from Mum’s room. The food hadn’t been touched. Head down, Rosaleen brought it straight to the bin and started scraping it into a bag. After the earlier scene, I knew this would have hurt her.
‘We’re just not breakfast people,’ I explained, as gently as I could. ‘Mum usually grabs a breakfast bar and an espresso in the morning.’
Rosaleen straightened up and turned around, ears alert to food talk. ‘A breakfast bar?’
‘You know, one of those bars made of cereal and raisins and yoghurt and things.’
‘Like this?’ She showed me a bowl of cereal and raisins and a little bowl of yoghurt.
‘Yes, but…in a bar.’
‘But what’s the difference?’
‘Well, you bite into the bar.’
Rosaleen frowned.
‘It’s faster. You can eat it on the go.’ I tried to explain further. ‘While you’re driving to work or running out the door, you know?’
‘But what kind of breakfast is that at all? A bar in a car?’
I tried so hard not to laugh at that. ‘It’s just, you know, to…save time in the morning.’
She looked at me like I’d ten heads, then went quiet as she cleaned the kitchen.
‘What do you think of Mum?’ I asked after a long silence.
Rosaleen kept cleaning the counters with her back to me.
‘Rosaleen? What do you think about the way my mum’s behaving?’
‘She’s grieving, child,’ she said quickly.
‘I don’t think that’s the proper way to grieve, do you? Thinking an elephant is in the room?’
‘Ah, she didn’t hear you right,’ she said lightly.’ Her head is elsewhere, is all.’
‘It’s in cuckoo land, is where,’ I mumbled.
Because people keep throwing this ‘grieving’ comment at me, as if I was born yesterday and never knew that it was difficult to lose a person you spent every day of your life with for the past twenty years, I’ve since read up a lot on grief. What I’ve learned is that there’s no proper way to grieve, no wrong or right way. I don’t know if I agree with that. I think Mum’s grief is the wrong way. The word grief comes from the old French word grÈve which means heavy burden. The idea is that grief weighs you down with sorrow and all the other emotions. I feel that way: heavier, like I have to drag myself around, everything is an effort, is dark and
She jumped up out of her chair as though a finger had poked up through the straw. ‘Don’t forget your flask.’ She hurried about the kitchen as though there was a time bomb. ‘Here you go.’ She handed him a flask and a lunchbox.
I couldn’t help but smile, watching that. It should have been weird, her treating him like a child going off to school, but it wasn’t. It was nice.
‘Do you want some of this for your lunchbox?’ I asked, pointing at the plate of food before me. ‘There’s no way in the world I’m going to eat it.’
I meant that comment to be nice. I meant that I couldn’t eat it because of the quantity, not because of the taste, but it came out wrong. Or it came out right but was taken up wrong. I don’t know. Anyway, I didn’t want to waste the food. I wanted to share it with Arthur for his cute little lunchbox, but it was as though I’d punched Rosaleen in the stomach again.
‘Ara go on, I’ll have some of it so,’ Arthur said, and I felt like he was saying it just to make Rosaleen happy.
Rosaleen’s cheeks pinked as she fussed around in a drawer for another Tupperware box.
‘It’s really lovely, Rosaleen, honestly, but I just don’t eat this much breakfast usually.’ I couldn’t believe such an issue was being made of the breakfast.
‘Of course, of course,’ she nodded emphatically as though she was so stupid not to have known this. She scooped it up and put it into the little plastic tub. And then Arthur was gone.
While I was still sitting at the table trying to get through thethree thousand slices of toast that could easily have been used to rebuild the castle, Rosaleen collected the tray from Mum’s room. The food hadn’t been touched. Head down, Rosaleen brought it straight to the bin and started scraping it into a bag. After the earlier scene, I knew this would have hurt her.
‘We’re just not breakfast people,’ I explained, as gently as I could. ‘Mum usually grabs a breakfast bar and an espresso in the morning.’
Rosaleen straightened up and turned around, ears alert to food talk. ‘A breakfast bar?’
‘You know, one of those bars made of cereal and raisins and yoghurt and things.’
‘Like this?’ She showed me a bowl of cereal and raisins and a little bowl of yoghurt.
‘Yes, but…in a bar.’
‘But what’s the difference?’
‘Well, you bite into the bar.’
Rosaleen frowned.
‘It’s faster. You can eat it on the go.’ I tried to explain further. ‘While you’re driving to work or running out the door, you know?’
‘But what kind of breakfast is that at all? A bar in a car?’
I tried so hard not to laugh at that. ‘It’s just, you know, to…save time in the morning.’
She looked at me like I’d ten heads, then went quiet as she cleaned the kitchen.
‘What do you think of Mum?’ I asked after a long silence.
Rosaleen kept cleaning the counters with her back to me.
‘Rosaleen? What do you think about the way my mum’s behaving?’
‘She’s grieving, child,’ she said quickly.
‘I don’t think that’s the proper way to grieve, do you? Thinking an elephant is in the room?’
‘Ah, she didn’t hear you right,’ she said lightly.’ Her head is elsewhere, is all.’
‘It’s in cuckoo land, is where,’ I mumbled.
Because people keep throwing this ‘grieving’ comment at me, as if I was born yesterday and never knew that it was difficult to lose a person you spent every day of your life with for the past twenty years, I’ve since read up a lot on grief. What I’ve learned is that there’s no proper way to grieve, no wrong or right way. I don’t know if I agree with that. I think Mum’s grief is the wrong way. The word grief comes from the old French word grÈve which means heavy burden. The idea is that grief weighs you down with sorrow and all the other emotions. I feel that way: heavier, like I have to drag myself around, everything is an effort, is dark and
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