Artwork: Enrique Cropper

Such was the immediacy of Patricia’s internal dialogue with her dead husband, there were even times of the day when a semblance of normality appeared in relation to his physical absence. “Besides,” Patricia had often jibed, “he spent half his life chained to that ERA desk.”

Yet, for all her strength, all her uplifting spiritual imaginings, and all her attempts to persuade herself that things at home were ‘more or less normal’, Patricia’s children soon learnt to tell when Patricia was having ‘one of her bad days’. The signs were varied but recognisable: an odd, distracted air during a conversation; a brief bowing of the head at an unexpected moment in the day; or a gentle sob from the bathroom when Patricia put herself out of sight.

On these occasions, though they could see it coming, they were powerless to prevent Patricia from ebbing away into a morose state of despair, when Patricia would slowly find herself engulfed in loneliness, telling herself, as she spiralled downwards, that George was no longer there and that she was a fool to even try imagining that they would ever be together again. In such a condition, a pattern would repeat. A darkness would envelope Patricia and she would shut herself off from contact with anyone else than her closest family, simply chuntering that “It’s alright” and “Don’t you worry about me”.

One day the phone rang. It was Lucija from work. Patricia was caught by surprise, having begun to wonder whether anyone outside the close family and friends really cared. Despite the kind words they had said about George at the funeral, Patricia had come to the view some time ago about the ERA attitude to what really matters between people.

“They so rarely talk amongst themselves about what really motivates them, about how they really feel, or whether they are happy or sad, fulfilled or quite simply running on empty. It’s always the political imperative that rules”, she had observed.

“But maybe, in the end, that’s just the way it has to be: to be efficient, government machinery has to somehow let people and feelings fall between its cogs”, was how she summed it up.

But hearing Lucija’s kindly voice, the first call she had received from one of George’s colleagues since that fateful day in November, she instantly forgave the distance they had put between themselves and George’s death.

The conversation with Lucija soon raised Patricia’s spirits. Lucija was a warm-hearted girl, good with people, while at the same time a great professional. George had always held her in high regard.

“She has a great personal touch,” he had often repeated.

Patricia immediately felt at ease in the conversation. Lucija was an empathetic person and knew how to listen, before she sensitively moved on to satisfy Patricia’s thinly disguised curiosity to hear how George’s colleagues were getting on.

“We talk a lot about George, a lot,” recounted Lucija. “You know, many, many colleagues have said he was a person who was always there for the ERA, and for many others.”

From the tremor in her voice Patricia could tell that Lucija was nervous. “You know, it’s like, it’s like…” Lucija paused, and her voice broke up over the phone. “…I. It’s hard to put in words, Patricia, and I hope you understand, how we all feel.”

Lucija breathed in once more and sniffed loudly. “Why. Sometimes it feels like George is still with us.”

Lucija’s openness touched Patricia, and the two of them continued the conversation, bound together through talking about George. The call ended and Patricia sat down in a state of tender elation. “Did it have to take all this,” she asked herself “for me to discover the human side to the ERA?”

As more weeks passed by, Patricia’s habit of speaking out at George receded and gradually evolved into something more intimate and instinctive. She began to observe the relation between what she was moved to say, outwardly, to friends and family, and what was inspiring her to say what she was saying.

She noted that whenever she had a thought, which prompted her to say something to or about George, the feeling arose in her that what she was thinking was not wholly a thought of her own. At first, she thought she might be losing her mind and put it down to ‘grief’. But this feeling became especially strong when Patricia posed a question to George or had a doubt about something she would habitually have discussed with him which, given the degree of complicity between the two of them, was practically everything.

In time, she looked back on one particular night to trace the start of it all. She had been lying awake in bed, finding it hard to silence the questions she was posing to herself over whether to sell the house, the very same house she associated so strongly with George and the life they had passed in it together. As she lay there, she became aware of this strange feeling that came over her: her doubts and questions were not coming from herself, but from somewhere much deeper. It was as if George was inspiring her to ask what she was asking. The questions were coming from him.

Eventually she had fallen asleep. But on waking the next morning, there was one thought on her mind:

“Look at the pros, look at the cons,” she muttered. “Weigh them up, and let your heart make the right decision,” Patricia had repeated to herself, inwardly, several times.

It was at this moment that she had observed an accompanying phenomenon in this newly discovered world of ideas that was opening up before her: the answers to the questions George was inspiring her to ask, were coming from her own soul.