A year ago, late at night, I got the phone call I'd been expecting, but didn't want to get - that Adrian had died. People say they know before the words come out; and its true - I had known that this night was The Night and was waiting. I'd been given hints that the time was close, but no-one, especially me - really wants to accept it. It was sudden in some respects, but expected in others; but in no way can something like this be prepared for fully.
I was awake and reading in anycase; alone in a house sitting job in Brisbane. The kids were at sleepovers in Dalveen. After clicking into automatic, the rational part of me taking over and making the appropriate calls to let loved ones and family know the news, I began the widows watch.
Traditionally a Pictish pagan belief, its practice is shared amongst many Gaelic tribes along with Nordic traditions and their descendants.
Though I didn't have the opportunity to be with him at the end, or to farewell him other ways, I knew his spirit was with me during the night. I know, with unshakable faith that he held me strong so I could do what was needed to be done; to drive up to Dalveen and to then begin the preparations for his funeral; and worst of all, tell the kids.
The widows watch is where the widow sits or guards the body until the first light of the next day. It is her duty to ensure it is given freedom to leave. Upon the year anniversary, the final widows watch is done, where a candle is lit and only snuffed out when the light of the next dawn rises. Again, its the widows duty to remain vigilant, pray, mediate and send blessings to finalise the journey.
I hate the word 'hope'; a four lettered lie. But if there is some goodwill in that word, then it would be my hope his spirit has found its rest.
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