Bills

As my dad went into the hospice, he agitated about paying the paper bill and milk bill. After that, he didn’t speak for a few days before he stopped breathing too. I’m sure he chose his moment. They were precious days, sometimes silent, or me talking to him at last, thanking him for all the things I hadn’t while I was running around the world. Seeing his childhood friends I knew as aunties and uncles in my childhood, and nuns and priests dropping in offering last rites and various Catholic blessings. This precious time of his death came after a Tantra weekend where I’d observed someone falling back and taking an inward Shamanic journey. I was prepared to bear silent witness. Recently being poorly, I may not be able to walk to the cafe 20 minutes away, but my electricity bill is paid in Greece.