Alpine Therapy
On hands and knees and with my head under the bedside table I grappled with trying to plug in a timer switch into a power point. My tech-savvy father had accumulated a draw full of electronic gadgetry necessary to illuminate Sydney if needed, and in process switch on enough lights to deter thieves when one was away. With the job done and whilst rising from the floor, I came face to face with a sticker on the bottom of a blue plastic container. ' Rosemary Dean, date of cremation: 5 December,' it read. There she was, reduced to ashes, just five centimetres from my nose. Up until this point, I was in total control. My bag was packed and I was ready to head overseas. Cradling the container I squeezed it tightly against my chest. My stomach muscles tensed and a swell of emotion began to flow from Balmoral Beach. It rose quickly up Coronation Avenue, flooded down Frascatti lane, ran up the driveway and hit me fair in the face. My fingers dug into the sides of the lifeles...