On with the ironing

Apart from family's and friends' phone calls and the radio, Kirkhill House on Christmas Day and Boxing Day was strangely silent. No voice except possibly that of me talking to myself. Yes, I hear her talking to me all the time and if that is the firsdt sign of madness let me tell you it's of great comfort. Even now when I'm writing up my diary, ('blog' - what a dreadful word is that), I hear her telling me to get on with the sorting out - or "anything other than that computer", she says. "There's that great and growing pile of ironing", "There's all my clothes and my collections of china, handbags, shoes: what are you going to do with them? There's that nearly finished painting not touched since I went. Get cracking and don't you dare become a hermit. Come on, Bryan!" Her words are not unkindly. Quite the reverse.

I've placed photographs of her here and there around the house, not that there's the slightest chance of me not remembering her face, her body, her looks or the times we had with dogs, our family and friends or all by ourselves. No chance of forgetting the fragrance of her, fresh out of the shower or all made up to go out or in the sweat-heat of some beach or sun-soaked garden. And I have in mind so well have imprinted the actual touch of her; all that charged electricity or whatever the hell it is or was, gone now but not ever forgotten.

One month ago yesterday the lady spoke her final two words. I needed to bend over the bed to hear them, my ear close to her lips. "Sorry, love", she said, and then no more. Even in the ultimate agony she had to apoloigise to me! 

Sorry? "What for?" I asked her. "No greater gift could ever be bestowed on me than you, Dee, you. But if you mean you're sorry for dying, for leaving me, that's OK; that makes two of us who're sorry - and that's just one last thing for us to share."  I like to think she heard me. I like to think that perhaps she even reads these words.

But right now I'm off to the kitchen. I'll crack on with that ironing, OK?

1 comment:

  1. blog is a horrid word. Sounds like someone with a cold.

    We had a quiet Christmas. We've reached that stage of more family "over there" than here, which makes things less exciting than they once were. If I have any regrets at being childless it is at Christmas time. Children make a difference, which is fitting for a day celebrating a most important birth.

    I hear voices too, some more real than others. Mostly they seem to keep you sane rather than the other way around. x


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