Everything Is Beautiful and Everything Hurts

by Josie Shapiro

IT WAS DARK WHEN SHE died, and it seemed as though the night had swallowed up everything outside her room. I knew that beyond the house the world still existed — that off to the west the hills sat surrounding the town, and that only a few minutes away the waves moved ceaselessly to the shore. I knew that somewhere on the road between Wellington and Ngāmotu, Helen was on her way, beetling along in her silver hatchback. Still, it seemed as though there was nothing else: just this room. Zach and I sat with Mum in the darkness. She was peaceful, her face undisturbed by pain, though her breathing was irregular, and often we worried that this was it — until she took another inhale and we’d relax, content to have another moment more. Around eight, a light rain started to fall. The sound on the roof was the music of sorrow, and Zach and I told Bonnie and each other our favourite memories of childhood: Mum watching every cricket game Zach ever played; the scones she baked;