It was around this time of year that she left me the voicemail. I’d missed her call and while I hate to admit it, if I’d picked it up I don’t think I would have listened properly to her. I think I would have rushed to quieten what she had to say - that she was tired, just oh, so tired, and that she felt the end of her life was coming. Instead, I listened to it while I was in the midst of something else, something else entirely forgettable. Probably walking somewhere where the pavement carried crisp packets and cellophane wrappers. Nothing important.
Instead of interrupting the goodbye that she wanted to make, I was lucky enough to get it bottled in a recording. I remain so grateful that she got to do it how she wanted to. She always did care about words, about telling her stories how she wanted to.
I called her back, said I’d go to see her. But last summer was hard, in hindsight; it frittered into sleeplessness. The next time we met she was in hospital and I didn’t know quite what to do with myself. The next day, I went to the flower market and bought pale yellow hollyhocks to plant in the lawn, because I needed to do something with these feelings.