I blink in confusion, feeling adrift and unanchored, like an unmanned boat bobbing aimlessly upon the mirror-still surface of a vast ocean. I gaze with unseeing eyes upon the nativity scene depicted in front of the church. CAROLS BY CANDLELIGHT TONIGHT proclaims the notice board. My mind is filled with sludge, my thoughts are thick treacle oozing with extreme sluggishness, unable to formulate anything cohesive.

I suddenly receive a flash of a towering wave; another split-second image of a boat crunched in half; then a sound like a speeding freight train washes over me. A final image bursts into my mind with such intensity that I refuse to acknowledge it. I blink again.

I see two people approaching me as I stand rooted in front of the church entrance, my body pointing slightly towards the path that leads to our cottage. I recognize Mary Bethel and Margaret Christians, two pensioners who invariably always know everybody’s business. They have their heads close to each other as they walk towards me, unaware of my presence. When they are about thirty feet away from me, I clearly hear their conversation, as if their words are being conveyed to me upon the wings of the wind.

“Such a tragedy, and at such a time of joy,” Mary says.

“I feel such heartache for Emma. I doubt that I would be able to bear such a loss. But to have him taken away mere days before … ,” Margaret says.  I don’t catch the last word.

“Emma has a core of steel. That woman has weathered many a storm God has blown her way, but this? This is asking too much of her, the poor soul,” Mary says after a while.

I grasp that they are talking about Mama, but I can’t make any sense of what they are saying. Just before they reach me, both ladies turn to take the entrance that leads to the back of the church. I realise they are probably serving on the candlelight committee; they are most likely going to help with the preparations at back.

I am overcome with a preternatural sense of urgency. Something isn’t right; something has shifted the balance in my world, and I needed to steer my boat back to safer waters. I pick up the pace and walk briskly to our cottage. There are others out on the street, but none of them hails me, and I call out to nobody.

All along the route to our house I marvel at the beautifully decorated houses. Many of them are adorned with fairy lights and brightly-lit reindeer pulling sleds on the lawn. Vibrant gold and green trimming festoon a number of trees. I sweep my gaze up to the starry heavens and delight at the sight of one lone star blazing brighter than all the others combined. As I near our cottage, an inexplicable feeling of foreboding overcomes me, but then I see Mama standing on the porch.

She looks much older than she had appeared this morning, I think. Her features are drawn in sorrow; her eyes are filled with pools of unshed tears. My heart beats thump painfully against my chest. Mama looks forlorn; she has placed one hand over the other, holding them against her breast. I focus on those much-loved hands whose touch can impart such gentleness, care, sympathy, love … and the occasional slap. They seem to fill my vision so completely that I imagine I can see the dry skin, the knuckles darkened by age and arthritis, the thick veins.

Mama is hunched in upon her frame, as if trying to make as small a target as possible of herself. I’m slightly perturbed by this posture of hers; a kernel of fear tumbles around in my stomach. The front door is slightly ajar behind her; from it spills soft yellow light and sweet carols. The melodious, familiar songs serve to return my serenity to me. But then something happens that shatters me.

Mama is staring straight at me as I near the house, but when I lift my hand to wave at her, she doesn’t respond. Two feet from the porch steps I stand stock still, incomprehension bubbling up in my heart and soul like roiling acid eating away at a barrier. A single tear escapes the pool in her right eye and rolls down a wrinkled cheek.

“Mama?” I ask softly, so softly that I doubt I had spoken. With a jolt I notice that a soft mist of rain has started to fall, but not a single drop of it falls upon me as I stand there, out in the open. The revelation is very near now; I feel an abyss yawning at my feet. Then Mama turns around to go inside, not once acknowledging my presence. The truth finally slams into me with such force that I expel a sob filled with raw, undiluted, soul-stripping grief. And Mama stops in her tracks.

“Selwyn?” she asks in a voice overcome with such sorrow that my knees buckle, but before I can collapse to the soft earth, a warm glow envelopes me, lifts me up, moves me gently towards my beloved mother.

As I reach out to touch her beloved face, already knowing that I am no longer of this world, a single beam of light extends from the glow surrounding me. Ever so gently, it comes to rest upon Mama’s face. She straightens up as if a bolt of lightning has passed through her, but one that soothes rather than harms. All the tears she has held in check overflow in twin rivers down her cheeks as she folds in upon herself to slump down upon the porch deck.

Her heart-wrenching sobs bring Clint and Elias running in concern to her side; I know seeing my brothers is yet another boon granted me. Mama speaks softly to them once she has managed to compose herself.

“I feel him here, boys. Selwyn. I swear I can feel his presence surrounding me,” she says.

My brothers surprise me with their words.

“I feel him, too,” Clint says in an awe-filled voice. He is weeping unashamedly.

“And me. I feel a warmth suffusing me. It can be no other,” Elias says with utter conviction in a voice thick with unshed tears.

“My loving son has come home to bid as farewell. Dear God in heaven, Your mercy knows no bounds,” Mama says in gratitude.

I blink for an eternity one final time.

Image: Dan Kiefer (www.unsplash.com)