On the day before she died
She told me shadows had hinges
That they open and hold memories
Full of all the light that’s within us
She pointed with conviction to the shadow underneath her hospital room tv
And with dilated pupils
Said
Chloe, can’t you see?
Each memory from the shadow was attached to a spring
You could take it out and hold it and relive it again
But you had to be careful, not to drop it or bruise it
To hold a memory was fragile
But worse was to lose it
She rambled on with vivid description
About how inside her shadow
Paintings existed
She described the colours and the moments as they blended
Just like the paints on her easel
It was spoken in a language
Honest and flowing and confusing and real
About the life she had lived and the way she could feel
She could pick them apart
Their nuances and tones
She watched the blank screen
Like it was a montage of everything she had known
I know fentanyl dripped through the blood in her veins
Up her arms, to her brain, to mask the unfathomable pain
But tell me
Why
Did I
Feel like the one that was insane
My perception of life changed that day
As I looked in her eyes and believed what she had to say
As I watched her mind replay a lifetime of moments
As she realised, finally, it was about to be over
My perception of reality changed that day
As we sat aside one another and her pain slowly drifted away
I don’t see the hinges of shadows
I can’t hold my memories as springs
But I can live my most precious moments while I am actually living them
I don’t see paintings in frames of my extraordinary days
I don’t see the brushstrokes and hues of the woman I became
But I have the chance to stop now
When my life feels overwhelmingly alive
And hold my moments rather than live to survive
She handed me a painting of my own kind that morning
In a language of my own between heartbreak and mourning
She handed me a gift greater than holding a moment
She handed me the chance to hold my own life and own it
I don’t see paintings in frames of my extraordinary days
I don’t see the brushstrokes and hues of the woman I became
But
I won’t look back hoping to once again have the chance
To sift through shadows with hinges
And retrace my dance
I don’t see paintings in frames of my extraordinary days
I don’t see the brushstrokes and hues of the woman I became
I see the fleeting reality of my beautiful life
Because of her
I know the value of living that with the gratitude it requires
