But I Wasn't Ready Yet

He's gone. 

Just two words were said, but they hit my heart like a punching bag. I know anatomically that that's not possible. 

Two simple words could never make an organ move. But I felt it. My heart physically swung, hit my back, and came forward again. That man dying literally moved my heart. No wonder I get dizzy when I stand for too long now. 

My heart was knocked out of whack. 

She tried to say how we'd miss him. How he had such a great life. 

But I cut her off. 

My punchbagged heart needed time to reform. 

I stayed there for a long time. Watching House of Games. The thrill of the correct answer, now a sour liquid leaking over the torn leather. 

A quiz just didn't seem fitting. 

There I was, about to start the journey of grief. Strike that. The nightmare of grief. And I was being told to "Answer Smash," the 1700s reigning Empress of Russia, with a Channel 4 show about clay. 

Catherine the Great Pottery Throwdown. I mumbled. 

The win was hollow. 

Just like his body.  

I sometimes wonder why death happens in such ungraceful ways. 

Like when you're eating spaghetti with sauce running down your chin. Or taking the rubbish out. 

Such mundane moments. Only to be told that your universe has shifted direction. 

Why can't we be sowing flower seeds in the hope of a new spring or surrounded by family at a celebration? 

Or even by their side. There to watch them walk away. 

Although the more mundane, the more memorable in a way? 

Doesn't everyone say, 'I remember where I was when the Queen died?' 

And I'm sure it was hardly a poetic situation.

Birth, on the other hand, seems more planned. You're given a due date. Or, if you're like me, 10 days after said due date. Sorry, Mum. 

You can prepare with birth.

You can travel to see the baby take their first breath. Hold them when they're here. 

Welcome them. 

Tell them they're in for one hell of a ride. 

But you'll ride shotgun. 

With death, there is no warning. 

Sure, there could be a decline. 

A, 'He's not got long left, I'm afraid. You might want to say your goodbyes now.' 

And those are just the lucky ones. 

No one really knows, though. 

You could be in Tesco, reaching for a salad and get the call. 

Be on the toilet, pants round the ankles, your phone ringing in the next room. A timebomb of pain until you pick it up. 

You could spend the day by their side, then go down for dinner, come back up - 

And they're gone. 

But maybe that's what they want. 

I don't begin to think that we have a say over our deaths. 

Or that we can ensure the poetic timing of others. 

But I like to think that the dying ones. 

The one's about to leave the party. 

Hope to go when we are in our "normal. 

Our everyday moments, where everything is okay and nothing has changed. 

When we're paying for our shopping, watching a favourite show, throwing a ball for the dog, putting food on the table, eating a chocolate bar, or even having a bath. 

That's when they go. 

Just slip away without a fuss. 

As if to say. 

It's okay. 

You'll be alright without me. 

Just carry on as you were. 

Maybe that's all they could hope for. 

And us too. 

And if that's the case, then let's unpause that game show, pick up that salad, savour that chocolate bar. 

They've come, and they've gone, and we're left behind. 

But we'll carry on. 

'Answer smash a popular autumnal plant with a hippie movement, made famous in the 60s.' 

SunFlowerPower. 

I whisper to myself. 

The punchbag sitting a little lighter in my chest.