last words

J painted a caravan for a fashion company a couple of months back to promote their latest collection. It was called "From the cradle to the grave". They wanted a baby on one side and a coffin on the other.

At M's funeral her older sister told some stories about M as a kid. How, as a toddler, she disappeared from the back garden for ages and reappeared with armfuls of flowers she had picked from the neighbour's garden. And how M was first presented to her older sister and cousins, lying in the middle of their grandmother's large double bed, this beautiful baby with a shock of dark hair, large dark eyes.

One evening, a month before that, J and I were sitting with M. J was watching television. I was chatting with M. What was he like as a baby, I asked. Beautiful, she said to my surprise: she was always one for the knee-jerk put-down. Everyone said how the drugs had made M not M anymore. She'd lost her sense of humour, they said. I do know everyone says that about their babies, she said, but honestly, he was just the most beautiful baby, with these gorgeous large dark eyes, and I said, He's still beautiful. M turned to him with an expression too sad to call a smile and just stared at him. I don't know if J was aware. He just carried on watching the television.

I can't write about M anymore. Or J.