I didn’t know my father was in a nursing home. It had been years since we had heard from him, and I learned it from the notary, who called me regarding unpaid bills. That surprised me, considering my father had always been well-off.
“He is also struggling with serious health problems,” the notary added.
There was a long silence. I wanted to say that my father had suddenly changed his number a few years prior and hadn't notified anyone, that he was the one who had isolated himself from everyone, but I kept those words to myself and coldly stated that unfortunately I couldn't help him. He coughed, let out a heavy sigh, and gave me the phone number of the nursing home. The next few weeks, I kept fearing he would call me again, but I didn't hear from him again.

Six months later, my father had died. I didn't see him again. Once in a while I had considered visiting him in the nursing home, but the drive would take over an hour, and he had advised against it himself: “Well, I don't know if you want to see where your dad ended up. But it's nice you called.”
A few weeks before his passing, my mother also came back into my life. She wasn't doing well either. She spoke with a weak little voice and called herself _Mummy_, as usual when something was wrong, “Mummy has breast cancer.”
It had started two years earlier and back then she had gone into remission, but now she had relapsed, and it had metastasized to her hip. My sister said on the phone, “It's her own fault. The fact is, she should have continued chemo, but denied treatment. She thought it wouldn't be necessary, and that she could cure it with her alternative therapies and guru-friends. You know, the usual bull...”

Together with my sister, I arranged the funeral service. We opted for a package of eight hundred euros: cremation plus a short ceremony in a service room. 
The night before the funeral, my mother called me. She had written a poem about my father and wanted to recite it during the ceremony, but every time she practiced, it became too much for her. Might I want to do it?
“Oh, don't you think you'd better do that yourself?” I said. “And if you cry, then so be it.”
“Well, maybe you're right.”

During the farewell ceremony, my mother was the only one reciting something. She walked towards the small podium as if she were walking barefoot over pebbles, and held her notes in front of her, like a ticket that she had to hand over. She anxiously tapped the microphone, swallowed a few times and started reading, with a shaking voice and her eyes focused on the floor. After two sentences already, the tears were flowing. The biggest part of the poem was unintelligible, and her sorrow was so loud that it seemed acted. My uncle watched with his arms crossed. When I glanced at him, he lifted his eyebrows, and puckered his lips in a silent sigh.

A month later, I received the bill from the funeral director, including a brochure with their services listed. A nameplate on a pillar near the scattering meadow. This, I could do for my father. It cost two hundred euros. My mother thought it was a good idea and was willing to pay half.
“Oh, by the way,” she added, “I've been thinking a lot lately about coming to Brussels. We could grab a bite together.”
“Are you walking better again?”
“Moderately. But last weekend I was in Lille, and in the old part of the town I had trouble with the cobblestone streets.”
“Well, here in Brussels it's the same, of course. Maybe we can arrange something for later this year, when you're back to your old self again.”
She didn't say a word. The silence lasted so long that I asked if everything was all right. 
“Yes, of course. I just lost my train of thought for a minute.” She kept silent for another brief moment. “I think about dad a lot. A few months ago he said, ‘We're going to get through this, both of us, sure thing. In fact, we should bet: Whoever beats their cancer first. Although... You'd win anyway.’ Such a typical thing for your father to say.”
A few weeks later, she told my sister the same story. By then, there had been more metastasizing. She accepted the chemo treatment, but complained a lot about it. Her voice became increasingly hoarse, and she seemed to be succumbing to the fatigue. More and more often, I caught myself using the past tense when thinking about her.

Three months later, we gathered at the hospital, called in a hurry by my sister, who had heard the end was setting in. 
My mother lay on her back with a strange grin on her face. Her eyes wide open, showing only the whites. That ghostly, milky white stare made me so uncomfortable that I kept feeling the urge to look away from her. 
My aunt stepped forward, took my mother’s hand, and whispered a few unintelligible words. My sister did the same. When it was my turn, I stopped at a meter from her bed. For a moment, my eyes glided over her face. Then I stood staring at the window, which turned hazy as if my gaze made it dewed. I kept standing there until I thought it had lasted long enough, and then walked away from her bed. 
My uncle whispered, “It's almost over,” and gestured to my aunt that he wanted to leave. I followed their example. An hour after I came home, I received a text message from my sister that my mother was dead. 

Of her savings, little was left. There wasn't even a thousand euros on her account. I suggested to my sister to do the same as for my father. 
“Are you out of your mind?” she shot back at me. “This is an entirely different situation. Mum knew loads of people. Obituaries need to be sent and whatnot. It’ll be pricier. But don't fret over it, we'll just sell her Beetle.”

The service was held in some kind of new-age church. A colleague of my mother’s gave a long speech, about her projects, her passion and her extraordinary personality. It was like an introduction for someone who was about to appear on stage herself.
On the scattering meadow, I stood in the back row. The wind made my mother’s ashes blow up and drift into a cloud over the grass. Suddenly, there was a commotion up front. A rapidly swelling hum. Something hit me on the cheek. Wasps. People ran in all directions, some of them with coats or scarves over their heads. The blowing ashes and the insects formed a single cloud, and the buzzing grew louder, as if overpowering the rustle of the retreating crowd. I covered my eyes and ears alternately, moving towards the car park, step by step, arm by arm, as if I had to swim through everything.

On the highway, the speed of the crowded traffic got to me. I took the exit at Kruishoutem and drove through the hills. When the evening fell, I was south of Ronse, in an area I had never been before. The evening red painted the rolling landscape into an earth-like ochre. There was no one, except for the four cyclists that came towards me in the opposite direction. A family with two kids. The parents on the outside, and the kids in between them. Just like my sister and me, thirty years ago, on Texel. She was six and I was eight, our parents in their late twenties. The flickering spring sun, the sea breeze in our flowing hair, our smiling faces. When I came closer, I saw the people in front of me were in fact not a family. The man was riding a bit behind now. He was a lot older and clearly didn’t belong to the group.
I started to feel warm. There was a deep red glow on the horizon. The earth and the dust from the fields seemed to be creeping into the car. A small bottle of water rolled under the passenger seat, back and forth, and the splashing irritated me so much that I could still hear it when it was lying still again.