The long, long dream ahead.


It's over. Our mom passed away on monday, in the early hours of the morning—she fell asleep and silently drifted off. Peace, finally. I feel terrible saying that...speaking of relief overshadowing sadness and loss. I've certainly tasted the tears, but as I sit here trying to find the right words, respite is the one constant that binds it all together. Because her life had become the antithesis to everything she was before, all she aspired to and all she hoped. Because we were helpless, trapped in the knowledge that none of it would ever be the same again, that her existence would become even worse than the nightmare we already knew. Because it made no sense—this descent, this relentless vanishing.

Today, for the first time in many, many years, I found myself revisiting happy memories. I remembered her as she used to be and already, as present and raw as it still is, the disease appears to be fading from my consciousness.

I'm not a religious man and don't have faith to hold on to...But I do hope there's a never ending summer evening out there, on some sideways plane of existence; ciccadas on the wind, a purple glow wrapped around the horizon; a perfect replica of our house circa 1978, standing alone on a quiet street, my mom having mint tea with my dad—both of them sitting on the porch after dinner, re-inventing the world as they used to. A long dream, snakelike and restful.

A blue hour
for the next eternity.

Patrick La Roque

laROQUE, 311 Lorncliff, Otterburn Park, Canada