On Farewells

She is making a Pavlova for her family. She always does when she makes home-made mayonnaise so that the egg whites don’t go waste. She decides to make strawberry glaze, made from the ones she got fresh at the market for a reasonable price. As she rinses the strawberries and separates the plump ones from those only fit for cooking, she reflects on farewells.
It has been a year of farewells. She had to let go of her father who passed away and say goodbye to the position she held for some years. She places the strawberries and sugar in the food processor, fires it up to make a sweet puree. She ponders how easily sadness turns to stress and how difficult it is to simply let the deep melancholy engulfing her be. She pours the mash of fruit and sugar to a saucepan. Soon she will be lost in her own thoughts and the sticky fluid will boil and rise and stain the stove. She’ll have to clean it again.
The kitchen is a reflection of her mind. Strawberry leaves and syrup drops all over the counter. Her dog happily licks her pants as they patiently absorb the small spatters of Bolognese sauce. An organized spotless kitchen was never her strongest suit. What she lacks in order she compensates for in speed and agility and a stubborn defiance to get all worked up about the temporary mess.
But death is not a temporary mess. It is finite and continuous, persistently present. She cannot make her father’s death disappear with rigorous cleaning. As she wipes the stove, she clings to the memories. They obey and let her. The jokes that only he could tell; the tired and loving gaze he gave her each time she approached his hospital bed; his hand in hers on Saturday morning excursions; his inquisitive and empathetic voice as he gently sought to understand how her life came crumbling down so many years ago. She pours the heavy cream into the mixer and lets the pain make her body tremble with weeping.
She knows that soon she will decorate the Pavlova with fresh strawberries. But there is so much she doesn’t know yet. This is the nature of farewells; they engrave us with question marks and uncertainty. She is making a flower shape from strawberry slivers and wonders what she will do when she grows up, again.
There are no shortcuts. What a cliché. But in farewells, there really are none. They make their way through horror and shock and denial and anger and negotiations and only then comes acceptance and resignation. How lucky we are, she tells herself, that Elizabeth Kubler-Ross wisely outlined the stages of grief. A roadmap for the journey ahead, so that we know where we are even when we are lost and tempted to cut through a dark alley.
The Pavlova is ready, white and red like Snow White. She now tends to the other dishes. When she cooks, she likes to pretend that she is someone else; a good witch from some fairy tale, once upon a time, preparing potent potions made of love and hope and pain and fear.
Stepping down from a professional position is a different story, she tells herself as she slices garlic cloves. They perfume her fingers. Positions come and go, she keeps telling herself, as the mushrooms sizzle in the pan. She also knows it was much more than a position. That explains the vacancy that wakens her far too early in the morning. She was blessed to do the work of her heart. That is no mean feat, as the poem goes.
Soon her family will come. There will be joyous exchanges of hugs and kisses followed by the sadness of the absence of her father, who will not be joining them ever again. Together they will recall his presence with stories and photos. There he is, beaming with joy at her wedding; and there he is with the granddaughter in his arms; and there he is…
Do not disengage before it is time, she kept telling herself all these months. We deserve beautiful farewells, and if we run away from them, we will miss them.