Loss

I took Maui for his morning walk as I do every morning. I popped a sketch in my pocket, I took my almost never-used binoculars (binocolo – Italian), and off we set. 600 meters later, we left the street to walk across the rocky outcrop that sits about 2 meters above the sea. It is volcanic rock adorned with sweet yellow flowers that sit close to the ground, like throw cushions, and tall green shoots with purple bells stand alongside the giant cactuses. (Cacti, if you prefer!)

The light in the morning creates long shadows and falls across the scene, creating magnificent contrasts. Maui plays, runs around and pees. This makes me think about how true to his nature he is. He doesn’t have a voice in his head constantly questioning and challenging his every move. Sometimes I think I must be in the real “Truman Show.”

I take out my binoculars (voice asks, “Is it plural or singular?”) I look across the sea to Gallipoli, then to the men building a bar on rocks just across from the villa I have rented for the next 10 days. I check the rocks and the sea, looking for something that I couldn’t see without these magnifying aids. I stop. Suddenly fascinated by the way the light is falling on the giant cactus plants. I take out my sketchbook and pen. Turns out I had picked a brush pen instead of a fine-liner. No matter, I thought, I’ll just work with this. I sat on the step and became lost examining light and dark and the scene in front of me.

After about 30 minutes, Maui nudges me out of my spell. We walk back to the villa. I was anticipating my morning coffee and some olives that I had marinated overnight in garlic, herbs, and peperoncino. I opened the door and set my things on the table. It was then I became aware that I did not have my binoculars, just the empty case.

I checked, double-checked, and checked again, as we all do when we lose something. The chat show in my head starts, and now that I live alone, the chat is audible. Yes, I talk to myself and to Maui.

I said, “Let’s go, andiamo” and we headed back the way we had come, scouring the road ahead, looking for any sign of my military-grade, late-night, drunken purchase. Nothing. I retraced my steps. The talk show was telling me that I didn’t know where I had been. I argued back. This led me to look in places that I had not been, along with those I had. This searching behaviour went on for about an hour. I was back and forth from the villa, looking, checking, and talking to myself.

Blame, admonishments, curiosity, scenario building, and finally I concluded that they were lost from me, gone, most probably stolen or taken by a passerby when I was lost in my study of the cactus, which was no masterpiece, just a note-to-self. This is what I call my sketchbook entries.

As I walked back to the villa, I reconciled that the device that I lost was not something I used very much, so perhaps it is now with someone who will get more benefit. Bargaining my way back to peace.

It was just at that moment I thought about how this pattern was familiar. I thought about my Mum and Dad, both passed, my sister and two brothers, all of whom died too young. My sister at 28, my youngest brother at 48, and my Irish twin at 58. Be careful of years that end in 8!

I did the same when they passed, with the exception of my twin. That is a story for another day.

When Mum passed, I felt so guilty. Even though I drove like a bat out of hell, I didn’t make it to the hospital fast enough to hold her hand before she died. I remember running into the ER and seeing my dad and brothers standing. I knew it was bad. Micro signals on their faces told me everything. I looked to my left, and a treatment room door was just closing. Through the gap, I saw Mum. She was intubated and convulsing in what I learned later was the heart attack that killed her. She died of an embolism. That was the one reason I blamed myself. Did I cause that that day on the boat in Captiva Island, Florida, 10 days before, when we were heading back to the dock?

I gunned the boat to make her laugh. She had such a great laugh, but instead, she fell over. The talk show in my head told me that falls can cause clots and therefore an embolism. My search for peace about my Mum’s death went on for years. Just like today, I searched even in the places I hadn’t been. I built all sorts of scenarios. I blamed lots of things, people, and circumstances, and I lamented that my daughter Thalia never got to meet my Mum -Phyllis Dawson Taylor (née Boyce) – the best human ever and the greatest loss in my life.

If your mum is still with you, call her and listen to whatever she wants to talk about. Her gift is not like the loss of a military-grade-drunken-purchase. Her gift is the most precious possession you’ll ever have, and when all you have are memories, precious as they are, they are not as wonderful as hearing her voice or touching her skin, or the feeling you get when your nostrils are filled with your mother’s scent.”