My friend Pam died a week or so ago. You might remember me speaking about her over the years? She was a month short of 91.   No funeral, no fuss.  Her wishes, her way. She received an OAM for  services to the local library midway through 2011 but played that down to the point that she told me she only agreed to accept the award because it gave the library a bit of publicity which might encourage further funding from the local council.

I went along to the gathering at her home on Monday after school. It followed a private cremation held earlier in the day. When I walked down the driveway there was a bit of sun playing about the trees and bushes and the whole garden seemed full of life. Camelias by the lounge windows -lovely big trees dotted in pinks, reds and white. The trickle of paths running off to the side lined with winter-roses. Currawongs and wattlebirds darting about.

The front door was open, a mix of family and friends talking in little clusters inside.  I noticed the dining table had been moved from its usual spot -where we always sat because the light was better for her eyes - and had been placed against the window and loaded with cups and saucers and plates of home-made food.  In the middle of the table was a framed photo of a young girl about 14 or 15, hair in thick plaits and she  reminded me of my sister Liz at that age.   A calm clear look on Pam's face. The poised intelligence of the schoolgirl.  

I knew a few family members and neighbours having met them over the years, but it did feel very strange-awkward really- to be sipping on tea and nibbling cake when the lady of the house was in absentia. I didn't feel hungry at all. I took myself off to the garden and wandered around to the side amongst the giant gums and past the white summer house -where she and her husband used to have tea-breaks when they were gardening- then went down to the end of the block  where the foliage spills together and the smell of flowers and bees is like a syrup.

I tried to take a few cuttings - her niece Dee had put plastic bags by the front door for this - but my heart wasn't in it. The loss of Pam too new and unreal.

I went back inside to say goodbye and to take a last look through the kitchen window at the propped up branch of the catalpa tree. We'd sit underneath it on sunny mornings with a cup of tea and a plate of yo-yos a friend had made for her. The magpie she fed used to come dangerously close but she insisted I had nothing to worry about. We'd watch it dipping into the water bucket she kept full beneath the tap.

As I was leaving on Monday, Pam's cousin told me the magpie hadn't been seen for days but had returned early that morning. She'd heard it tapping on the window. It was a story I wanted to hear.