message..."Kiskadee!'' ...a delivery.

Standing in the kitchen, another morning marinated in sunshine, dew from the leaves and grass. How she would have enjoyed this winter Sunday! The riot of competitive singing from the birds she had so loved. The tilted square of sunlight warming the wooden floor.

The kitchen looked the same he thought, the blue and white tiles, the large window to the garden, appliances all lined up: toaster, kettle, microwave, food processor (unused).

Still clean, still organised, that had always been his role. He kept it that way, but oh how much had changed beneath the surface.

The cupboards were empty now, the bin always full. He ate junk food, had taken up smoking again, had put on weight nonetheless.

For six months he had preserved her presence in the house, but the garden was a different matter.

He knew he was supposed to be doing things out there, but what things? Grooming, weeding, planting? He only knew the most obvious of trees, could never remember the names of the shrubs or annuals. What were those plants she had bought last Christmas? Bird boxes had been his department. And tidying the tools -- rake, hoe, spade, now unused. But since she moved in it had been her garden - he used to see her through the kitchen window, her hair in a ponytail -- digging or pruning, talking to the plants, talking to the birds.

He leaned on the warm counter top and contemplated the amount of work that was needed.

The garden's growth was go relentless, he had such ignorance to overcome, the idea was so tiring. Maybe later, once the mourning had reached the fourth stage, or whatever the counsellor had said...

But now here was an odd thing. Several times recently he had noticed small things on the window ledge, as if left there on purpose.

A beautifully veined bay grape leaf had been the first -- he had been about to sweep it off the sill when its patterns arrested him. How had it arrived there? Another day there had been a delicate orange-yellow hibiscus flower, furled liked an unused umbrella.

Then a spay of flowers from a Royal Poinciana, the bright shocking red was unmistakable -- but surely they were out of season? He resolved to find the plants that produced such beautiful things and discovered that there were no bay grapes in the area, the closest hibiscus of that extraordinary colour was across the road, a full fifty yards away.

Today he opened the window and took in the three perfect frangipanis. Like a mysterious gift, like a message. He thought he should start keeping a note, a list of what he found there.

He thought how much he would have liked to share these things with her. He suddenly felt thrilled that there should be something there, today of all days.

The memorial service had been planned as she would have wanted it - planned for such a long time, perhaps because he couldn't bring himself to name a date.

The delay seemed to have given their friends and family more say in the arrangements than he would have liked. Her brother insistent, persistent.

He had been a thorn between them before: "My brother thinks I rely on you too much financially, thinks I should be getting a Hale more independence.'' "My brother says you drive recklessly, thinks I should get my own car.'' But she would laugh at him sometimes, too: "You should have seen my brother getting a taste of his own medicine from Nancy -- just what he needed.'' They say that morning is easier if you have a chance to say goodbye. They say that after a time you can redirect your life.

He had heard that you get used to the pity and the embarrassment of people's reactions, then their expectations that you can continue somehow as you were.

What he heard say and what he knew were two different things. He knew about the mind numbing hours he spent sagged in the kitchen chair, dragging on a cigarette.

He knew about the dulling formalities of death -- certificates, insurance, inquest, notifications. Closing her account at Smith's, unused, after the third reminder.

He knew how the pain was kept alive by details. He knew about those moments which suddenly took your breath away -finding himself in tears at the supermarket passing the bags of birdseed, seeing an ad for the new box-shaped car she had wanted in the paper. He knew how dreadful Christmas would be without her.

The phone rang. Her brother.

"Hey, how're you doing? Couldn't have a better day for it. Can we give you a lift there? Nancy wants to know is anyone else going to wear a hat?'' The memorial service in the Botanical Gardens and the tree planting - a Bermuda Cedar in her name. Would they all expected him to draw a line under the past today? Did they think this would "close the chapter'', was he even supposed to have an opinion about hats? Didn't they that he couldn't say goodbye, not after that morning. Ordinary enough in its way reminding her to lock up when she left, saying that he would pick up the dry cleaning, and had she lost the receipt? Carefully not mentioning their stupid argument of the night before. Pretending it was unimportant to him.

It hadn't even been an argument really, just a disagreement. It had started with her commenting on his driving, she said he had passed too close to a cyclist.

He said he'd driven on these roads long enough to know how to handle cyclists, and he didn't mind taking criticism from people who were drivers themselves.

Which of them had hit a post a few months back? She put up a wall of silence for the night and he had been too tired to broach it, although he knew if he did that she would be warm and welcoming. A web had been spun which he had made no effort to sweep away the next morning. Pride! It would been so easy to reach out to her. Why hadn't he take the opportunity to hold her close, to tell her that be loved her and could never love anyone else, even if she were to die tomorrow, even if she were hit by a bus? Why had he offered only the perfunctory kiss goodbye? Why hadn't he taken the bike and let her have the car? Her last moments were absolutely clear to him, as if he had been there himself.

The kid on the bike, overtaking on the bend - she would have cursed him, but then suddenly the blue truck coming around the corner, swerving to avoid the kid....but did she have time for one last thought as she realised what was going to happen, or did she spend her last terrified seconds trying to save herself? Had she thought of him? He lit a cigarette and at the kitchen table, taking the message pad and pen from by the phone.

He wrote the message to her that he had drafted in his mind over the past six months. Then he carefully folded the paper into a thin slip, opened the kitchen window and gently closed the window on the note, wedging it between the frame and the sill.

At the service his friends were thoughtful and quiet at first. But after the planting and the blessing from the minister, the song from the youth choir, and with the noise, the kids running round, the birds, the beautiful day, even the black suits couldn't prevent this gathering of friends from being a noisy one.

His own suit, unused since last Christmas Eve, felt tight around his waist, as if even it was judging him, telling him to move on, insisting that it was to adjust to a new life.

Friends approached him cautiously, some he had not seen since the funeral, their anodyne comments rehearsed: "We miss her too you know.'' "I'll drop in next week, is there anything you need?'' "She'd have loved the service.'' "Hope you'll come to us for Christmas.'' He was aware of more interesting conversations in the background: "He looks so pale, spends too much time at work.'' "Can't believe she wore that hat.'' "Just feel happy to be alive.'' "See you got one of those new little cars - bread box! - Now you'd better start saving for one with round wheels.'' "Are you taking him for Christmas?'' The Minister had seen it all before, took him aside. "You know the important thing is to find a way to cast off, set your boat out again, chart a new course.'' He was a keen sailor. "That's what she would have wanted. Find a way to be useful - that can help.'' He decided to walk home, thanked his friends for the offers of lifts. By the gate he noticed a huge Royal Poinciana, what a majestic tree it was! Some of its leaves had fallen, those that remained looked incongruous, their delicate feathery texture contrasting with the massive frame of trunk and branches.

And yes, there was one spray of flowers left over from the summer, its colour almost shrill among the soft leaves.

He stared up at it, disbelieving, wondering that such a random event could have occurred.

How each breeze, wind and gale that had come along had taken all the other flowers one by one but left particular one. Why should this flower still be here, beautiful but wasted, its secret unused, and so close to Christmas? Curiosity stirred in his mind and body.

If he hadn't been in his suit he might have climbed the tree to pick the flower. He wondered again at the one he had found outside the kitchen window.

At home he changed out of his uncomfortable suit and hung it up carefully.

Anticipated slowed his steps as he entered the kitchen, holding his breath. He opened the kitchen window - his goodbye note was no longer there.

He felt pin pricks of energy in his limbs, electrifying his muscles, he itched to be active. He almost ran to the garage, grabbing a spade, confronting the garden.

The kiskadee called from a branch, declaring its territory. Well he thought, that's one thing we have in common, I belong here too.

If he began now, the garden might be in shape by Christmas -- he would think of it as a present to her. He bent his back to the warm soil and started working.

SHORT STORY COMPETITION CPN