Michael Journeyman. A Montlaur mourning.
After Sarahs’ tragic death, Gerry was asked for a photo of her and the best he could find was this one in his mind. A person who was someones’ little girl, someones’ wife, someone who revelled in the sports of fencing, politics and french life…and to her very end, was everyones’ friend.
Where can I go to help me let go of someone special caring and kind? Where can I go for a ‘catch-up’ and a think? Where can I go for a cuppa and be told, ‘Don’t wash up just leave it by the sink, and perhaps you will stay and join us for a drink?’ It’s then that Mike looks at me, laying down the gauntlet saying, -‘A handy dish-washer, what do you think’! Sarah might then look to Mike across their very snazzy super flat floor having heard this sort of thing many times before raising her hand to jest in delight, -‘After that comment dear…you are cooking tonight’! (Mikes’ joke now well and truly foiled), followed in perfect, clear, cut english… ‘-And I prefer my lemon chicken dear, when he has been… well…boiled’!
Oh what will Mike do without his Zorro tomorrow?
Where can I go to see someone so… dressed to impress and smart in every way? She could smoke a cigarette with elegance and style, a glint in her eye, and that beautiful smile. We would giggle and laugh as he carefully and kindly fills up her best found vide grenier glass. Me being me would always stay to the end, ever polite and so as not to offend! A white to start followed by… another! And no such thing as, ‘thats plenty’, until absolutely sure it was almost empty! Tasting and testing and taking turns asking, sometimes in panic, ’oh man, is this one organic’. Old or new, where was this wine made and by guess who? Mike may say ‘its’s fruity or tooty’. Sarah may say ‘an early morning scent…a flowery dew’. All I can say, ‘Ah sure it’ll do’ and stretching out the empty glass respond with, ‘nine and a half… I would give it a ten out of ten if the bottle was bigger’! Then in unison like newly-weds they both snigger!
Oh what will Mike do without his Mary-lou?
Where can I go to hear a cat purring or see it cleaning its’ fur, while gazing up at me with matching green eyes, a feline stare which shouts, ‘Meeeow, shift your ass, don’t you know that’s my chair!’ Sarah was rarely home before six and by then Mikes’ pot belly would be full, of sticks. He will have the house cosy and warm, anticipating her iminent return. That marmalade on some important papers, regally stretched on the marble table, waiting for more grub…thats if its’ able!
Where can I go to say another Hello? Where can I go to stop the anger from being a tool to temper? As all Montlaur grieves the loss of someone at their very centre. A cook, a host, a head of most. If you got in trouble she was there, wise counsel, discrete, professional and fair. En guarre again and then tous chez, oh how I wish that awful day would go away.
Where can I go to not remember what happened in November? It really hurts to think of her from one day to another. What stressful sadness and morbid madness for Mike and her mother. The silence of her absence gets louder, but rest assured, when she comes home, her family, friends, neighbours, workmates, clients, employers, politicians, contacts and cats… (perhaps not in that exact order!) recall the deeds she did for us all, and so often not for material reward. Generous with her time, a caring heart, and yet a determined mover and shaker with conviction, coupled with compassion, and that rare intelectual capacity to care, all done with her own personal flare.
Sarah. We all miss you now and know in our hearts all the wonderful things you did were not just done because you should, but much more simply…because you could…………………….. A bientot.
Sarah Wafflard-Walker 1975-2015