After several days of my aged companion, Crisp, going missing, I found her at the passenger terminal.
“I’m going home,” she announced when I asked her what she had been doing.
“Where’s home?” I asked, knowing she’d sold up everything before coming on our trip.
“Why Gladys Street of course,” she replied as if I should have known. “Mavis called said I should come home.”
I drew in a breath and understood what was happening. I’d been concerned about Crisp for the last few months. She’d started wandering and talking about the past as if she was still there.
“Mavis is dead,” I said to her.
“You are a silly man sometimes,” she retorted, “Mavis wants me to stay at her beach house. I can’t wait to see her and feel the surf around my feet.”
I nodded as I understood it was pointless to get into any conflict with her. Mavis had died when the beach house burnt down.