Sylvie always had to have the last word, no matter what.
As it turned out, this even was to be the case when it came to her death.
It was a cold Thursday evening in mid January and I had popped in to Sylvie’s to pick up my daughter on my way home from work.
On the stove was one of Sylvie’s lovely stews, bubbling away and smelling delicious. As I was helping myself to spoonful, Sylvie was trying to get me to have a bowlful of another of her specialties – a treacle suet pudding. I laughed and said no, I just wanted a taste and that dinner would be waiting for me at home.
Sylvie followed me down the hallway to the front door to see me out. As we opened the front door, a freezing cold blast of air swirled in and we shivered, pulling our clothes tight around us.
I gave Sylvie a peck on the cheek saying, “See you tomorrow,” and adding, “Get yourself inside out of the cold and keep the heat in.”
Looking up to the sky, Sylvie replied, ” I reckon we’re going to get some of that bloody snow from America.” (The east coast of America had suffered heavy snow falls that week.)
She died suddenly and unexpectedly at Home the next morning.
One week late it was Sylvie’s funeral. She had wanted to be cremated, and so we decided to bury her ashes in her mother’s grave.
As we stood at the graveside in heavy snow, freezing and ankle deep, I looked to the sky and said to myself, “You were right weren’t you, we got that snow from America. – You’d have to have the last bloody word!”