Fly in a Jar

To grieve in isolation, in these surreal times, is novel to say the least. In some ways he went weeks before, as isolation meant I had not seen or even spoken to him, distanced to being merely a known stranger – a statistic. He was dispatched from the New Cross still unwell, only to return 12 days later, where upon he passed away on the 8th April 2020. The virus of course.

To try and depict one’s final moment of life, after the last desperate breath, when there will be no more heartbeat and the river begins to slow. This must be when time and energy separate.

These 12 images are statements about the experiences of isolation and the grieving after the death of my father.

Covid-19 may not discriminate but the testing and safety procedures do.

Fly in a Jar

I do not know if he thought he was coming back. My mother told him he probably wouldn’t be in for so long this time. She was right. I do not know if he knew how ill he was either. As he was wheeled away he said he did not like the ride in the ambulance, but this was no ride, with potholes and the rattling lunges he was strapped in like livestock to be a statistic.

The lungs and heart were to suffer a fatal onslaught from a covert and insidious enemy. This was nothing personal mind you, just an agent’s simple requirement for a host. Many hosts for many replications. And across the surface of the Earth. Little has been more viral than this in modern times. We knew what was coming. He unknowingly obliged.

Now we stand like pylons, distanced by memories and a duty to prevent the effective and ravenous stepping stone effect from continuing at its relentless pace.

I would like him back in his armchair spouting satire which after all is what he did best. I have tried speaking to him in my head since, but he doesn’t appear to be listening. Some old photographs, pale in hue yet vivid with memories, appear, as if through a letter box in the sky. His hair, the small curls were as dark as charcoal back then, a belly of a thousand lamb chops, the goon face, the raconteur, the moods, the armchair football manager, the pain, the time trapped in polaroids which can never be released. I can not remember my last conversation with him. What were our last words? Does he know he is dead? I do not think he will be impressed with this. I always said he would be too ill to attend his own funeral.

We wait like flies in jars for our freedoms to return. We wait, but some of us don’t and some of us won’t. When the world was sent silent and folk were distanced into strangers.

I try to keep company with my mother’s mind by sending text messages which travel many thousands of miles from this there London to that there Wolverhampton via a satellite orbiting the heavens, yet the distance feels more like a thousand light years. At first the clerical duties of the event seems to occupy her time. She says these sunny days help, help the spirit. She is distracted you see, distracted by the paperwork, by the telephone calls, the careful folding of his clothes, and a garage of clung-to eras which will now be cleared out.

Week one is manageable, if not raw. The shock has yet to arrive, but like the virus it is most definitely on its way. You can smell it – like sulphur. It will not disappoint. Then, separated by both a two-and-half hour journey and the imposition of distancing rules, we try to console, we try to comfort. We try. Then more old photographs appear from nowhere. And then our beloved Prime Minister is well again. Yet He is still dead. Everything has changed whilst we all remain still.

We sit and wait and sit and wait and sleep and wait and then just wait like stones and a cup is smashed with these hands which never…

The birds have reclaimed the sky and it is we who are now caged. I find myself cracking as ice does at undetermined moments. I assume the others, that is mother and brother do too, in solitude, far away, this is how we touch. Alone together, together alone. We have never been more connected and yet so unattached. Isolation is a mere gauntlet to one’s imagination. Grieving in isolation is an endless fall. Time has never been so cruel. We wait because there is no other choice. We wait because we are the ones still standing, still breathing deep in trenches, we wait with this precious jewel called time. Isolation is our only weapon. Yet this virus is not our only enemy; guilt, greed and betrayal are already galloping over the horizon.

These are not sunrises we see my friend, these are the memories. This is how the sun once rose. This is how my father saw it. And when it rises again, which it will, when this is all over, it may be different, like a few keys missing from a piano. May be all the loved ones who we have lost were the sacrifices for something better. If this was their parting gift, then we must honour this we must. And learn to play a different tune.

Graham Everitt
March 28th 1943 – April 8th 2020.

Thank you for reading this.

Stay safe.