Going Home
The bubble of voices faded away. Their words become distorted and faint as her body floated beyond them; far from the grandchildren playing tag in the garden or Daisy & Floyd sitting at the old planked table with its peeling varnish.
Martha’s vision dimmed with the evening sunset, making the golden hue of the afternoon she had watched come and go, turn to an amber glow. It reminded her of the ones she had sat and watched over the years in the same rocking chair. This evening, the amber tones darkened to black, blotting out all sunlight.
Then nothing. Weightlessness and darkness were the only sensations she felt. As she began to slip deeper into the void of nothing, a tug around her chest pulled her forward.
A pair of warm hands gathered her up and carried her towards a white light in the distance that turned into a shimmering muslin veil. Behind it, whispering voices came. Two shapes of light glided towards her. As they draw nearer, she saw they were human. A rainbow over each of their heads; their faces were like the sun and their flowing gowns gleamed like pristine marble. They came aside of her, and with the barest of touch of their hands, guided her through the veil. Light blinded her. She squeezed her eyes shut as her feet landed on solid ground.
When she opened her eyes, the cloud-like figures were gone. Ahead, dots grew into
assorted shapes and colours as she moved towards them. Their outlines becoming firmer, clearer, until she recognised them to be human.
Martha’s bare feet touched grass. Soft and luscious, its blades tickled her ankles. The bony feet of her older years were gone. Smooth skinned and perfectly manicured feet stepped nimbly across the field towards the small group who waited.
When she reached out her hand to caress a daffodil, her fingers were no longer a map of criss-crossed wrinkles or bent with arthritis. Long, strong fingers plucked the flower from its stem.
She straightened up to view the assembled welcome committee.
A thick set figure with a thatch of unruly snowy white hair with its odd strain of faint ginger, stood to the left of centre. Dad. He even worn the brown overall stained with oil and grease from working on the old bangers. By his side, stood a tall slender woman with shoulder length hair like her own auburn colour locks and greenish eyes. Mum. No longer the wane and weak person in pain as the cancer took its hold of her or the unconscious body that laid grey-faced from the house fire smoke, her hair singed and eyebrows burnt. She stood upright, smiling, leaning against her father, her arm looped through his.
In the midst, of the huddle a middle-aged man turned to a young woman beside him. he was pixie-like with impish smile and sunflower corkscrew hair falling around her face. She gazed up at him with a warm encouraging smile. He patted the young woman’s forearm and slipped his arm from hers. He took a step forward to Martha with the familiar leisurely gait she knew of old.
Same straight-back stance, loose shoulders. Same weather-beaten face and warm hazel eyes that had looked down at her with a tenderness which never failed to melt her.
‘Sam?’ Her hands reached out to him as his arms embraced her.
She thought she must be dreaming, but the solid feel of his body told her otherwise. Her hands stroked his arms, feeling their firm contours. He was real. This was real. Wherever it was.
He gazed down at her, a gentle smile on his face. ‘Welcome home, hon.’