Memento Mori

The delivery van door slams and in the wake of tendrils of exhaust smoke stands a box.

Nondescript, brown and plain.

Magda gingerly makes her way toward the object. Squatting to trace her index finger along the seams of tape holding the wrapping.

The waft of tobacco and coffee from the package could mean only HIM.

Her father’s voice, raspy and reprimanding, loops in her skull. A little girl in a mature middle- aged body, or skin bag. Paying heed to the parental chiding.

‘for gods sake child, get off the road and step away from the curb, use your common sense’

Magda obeys the inner scolding and lifts the box away from the pavement. Scans her neighbour’s fence to the right and left and retreats into the house.

The package sits for a moment on the hallway stand, along with car keys and a well-worn coat suspended from a hook. This house has also seen better days; scuff marks on the beige walls and snippets of age creeping into the hinges.

Magda bites her lip in that signature way of hers and looks upon the package. The hint of tobacco prompts saliva. The ex-smoker’s barb.

The brownness , plainness feels like her life. A long straight road of sameness, indistinct landmarks of safety and security. No sudden detours into ambiguity.

The box arrived sooner than expected. At least it is a nice, safe surprise. Lost, delayed and diverted packages always cause headaches. This one would definitely be a nuisance if it got stuck at a depot.

Magda puts the kettle on to distract from the cravings for smokes and scoops a double shot of instant coffee into a mug. A ciggie would be nice with the coffee thinks Magda, the second call of the smoker’s siren.

The phone rings. The caller ID announces RITA , her sister.

“Got the package”? Rita’s voice sounds shrill, hurried. Dog yips in the background.

“ Yeah, It’s just arrived” Magda walks to the kettle, holding the phone in the crook of her neck and scalds her hand. “Shit, just burned myself “

“Use loudspeaker Mags, it’s what you should do anyway to stop brain tumours “ Good Rita, anxiety has skilled her in modern ways. Plus she’s a natural school teacher full of bossy.

Magda fumbles with the phone, and pushes the end call button instead. She’ll call Rita later. Now to the bathroom cabinet for first aid. Packets of Ibuprofen, Fluoxetine and Anti-fungal cream in their glory...and the outdated first aid kit with triangular bandages. Magda remembers to run cold water on her hand, the redness smarting now.

A brown cat winds around Magda’s legs and slinks away into the corridor.

“Hey Sargeant, we got a delivery today. Your grandfather’s gift. Wanna check it out?”

Sargeant jumps onto the hall stand where the box perches. He’s sniffing the edges and craning his neck to the base.

Recalling the settlement of the will. The Will was read, all items of value and sentiment partitioned equally between siblings. Their father’s house would be sold soon and the profits split.

Magda can finally renovate the kitchen and afford a paint job. Maybe even ditch her receptionist job at the clinic. But first has to finish the clean-up job on her father’s house. Do all the things that her hoarding academic father neglected under his own roof.

On settlement day Rita and Magda shook hands with their father’s appointed lawyer and left on equitable terms. Then had coffee in the shop two doors down from the legal office. The will conditional on the acceptance of one final parting gift. The mystery of the final parting gift was guessed and re-guessed. The stipulation was to unwrap and place the said contents on a surface with mirror backing and leave it for 6 months. Nothing too odd given their father's tendencies.

The funeral was simple. The service read in Latin , as per father’s wishes. Good thing she can read and pronounce a dead language. As in life, as in death, he would say. Medical terminology is familiar ground, one can enjoy being smug around doctors that don’t expect a receptionist to understand human anatomical terms. Still she could’ve finished the law degree and instead be drafting contracts in Roman numerals. Echoes of her father voice.

The hardest part of the funeral was being witness. To the coffin rolling into the crematorium pyre. To the knowledge of her place next in the mortal queue. Hard feelings burn slow and die hard.

Mors Vincit Omnia

Death conquers all.

The flowers rescued from the coffin are testament; dry rosebuds stand forlorn on a vase on the the mantelpiece. Magda wonders where to put the package and what the hell it is exactly.

Sargeant’s curiosity is piqued and he's nibbling on the folds of the package. Magda moves the package over to the kitchen table and remembers to hunt for a mirror. Somewhere in the spare cupboard there's one.

Magda's memory traces back to her father in his final weeks in the nursing home. A proud man in a frail suit of a body. Speaking his lingus franca and no one understanding, other than his two dutiful girls.

The box is now resting on the table and Magda attacks the tape and peels the paper off the frame of the box. Extracting the lid reveals a solid white mass. The object is familiar yet somewhat stylised, grandiose even.

Roman Coins adorn the eye sockets of her father's plaster cast head. Two silver denarii with Emperor staring out.

The nose and mouth are set in his stoic manner. The wisps of receding hair etched into the skull. Moving the head in line with the mirror, Magda notices words lining the rear of the skull.

The words on the mirror reflect:

Quam bene vivas refert, non quam diu

How you live your life matters.

Just like her father to have the last word.