A morning too early, a morning too late

Sensing the future

It was our last morning in New York City. It was a morning too early to be leaving, and as it turned out, a morning too late. Dad was on his final lap of life, and we were making a dash home to cheer him along as he hit the home straight. 

I went down to breakfast with a heavy heart. The bar was buzzing. Halloween scenes were already playing out in the streets. A kind waiter asked me 'have you got your costume sorted for tonight?' To which I stumbled, 'no...I I I have to go home. My dad's sick...' and began to cry. The dear boy was shocked, 'Oh, I'm so sooorreeee. Do you wanna hug?' I could barely breathe. NO, I managed. I ate cereal alone, and had grapefruit juice. Dad loved grapefruit.

I packed the last of my things, and stumbled out through the lobby, past glamorous girls in fabulous costumes. Mark had already run off to explore the neighbourhood after checking out of the hotel early. It didn't seem real. People strode past in devil's outfits, kids wore capes, masks floated along the street. It was hours before the Halloween march would begin. We would be flying by then.

SNAPSHOTS-stolen on the run towards lift-off

We took a table at Katz's Deli at the corner of Ludlow Street so Mark could have a crack at $20US worth of sliced meat in a sandwich. That was a LOT of meat. I watched the scene, and picked at a pickle. 

Then we raced across the Lower East Side, trying to grasp some of the LES style in our last hours-independent fashion shops, artworks on the street, and the kerbside market where I found a stall with my original beanie maker!! Small joys, human connections, mementos. Past the ups and downs of fire escapes, past facades of different colours in a sunny sky.

And then we were gone. 

Travelling home from a long way away has a way of making time seem elastic. There is no proper day and night. We moved from chauffeured car to bus to escalators to walkways to lounges to aisles and seats. From the airport in LA, I spoke to Dad and he listened, I knew he heard me. I told him we were on our way.

Closing in...a continuous present...

We are allocated our small space. I fear I might drown in the seat, surrounded by strangers and flooding myself with tears. An air hostess tells me 'He will be there. I will pray for him.' I say 'I know he will be there. I just feel it.' I don't say: don't bother with your prayers. 

Mark is making phone calls as the plane taxis for take-off on the tarmac in LA-we need to arrange for the kids to fly home too. We will be stuck above the clouds for the next 12 hours. What a strange world we are in: life below us with the hours moving on. We are hostages to oceans and datelines and shifting shadows of night and day as the earth turns towards to the sun and we fly west over the sea.


We land in Sydney, and race to get an earlier flight, not knowing that Arfur's journey is already over. We hustle our bags, abandon a trolley to the cries of the staff, and dash onto a connecting bus to grab the first Syd-Melb flight. The bus lurches off towards the domestic terminal, and then my phone rings. As I sit next to a stranger, I hear Charlie say 'um, I've got some bad news. Arfur...didn't make it through the night...He died at 10.15...' Through his sobs I hear myself saying NO! What? I thought he'd be there! I was sure! And the tears are streaming. I see Mark's pained face across the bus and scream to him with my eyes. He comes and shifts into the seat beside me, and I sit on this bus, caught in a capsule full of other bodies and lives as I farewell the idea of my father's.

Sensing the past

Through the blur of the next hours, I sat and wept and sweated and churned. My top was soaked with nervous perspiration, my body tense, my head gripped with a tightening dead hand. There was some comfort to be had in having a shower and food, coffee and grog in the airport lounge.

It was here I put some words together, telling my friends that we hadn't made it home in time: 

Somewhere between here and there, as we raced home to see him, Dad passed across the line. We were airborne. I was dreaming. In the dream, I framed objects in the foreground for a photo, then noticed that Dad's cheeky smiling eye loomed across the picture from the top corner. I awoke mid-flight. This was the time of his passing. I felt rested and calm. Thanks for all the steady care and love over the years to my beautiful father. I know he could hear me when we communicated on the phone from LA airport. He knew we were on our way back to see him. xx

Still, there is a terrible grief in not having made it back. Just to hold his hand. To say good on you, Arfur, well played and thanks. Too early to leave, too late to go on-that's life for you.