I hate blogs! Which is probably why I begin them and leave them hanging around like unfinished bits of knitting. Come to think of it I hated knitting!
To me blogs fall into two main categories, the failed attempt at penmanship or, worse, the product of self indulgence, a self esteem boost or inner solace requirement. Mine is the latter, I have no excuse, I need a outlet for my self pitying wallowing.............
Roy died sixty nine days ago.
This day, sixty nine days before was the last day that I held his hand, kissed him, felt his skin, watched the breathe leave his body for the last time. The final silence that accompanies death, the unmistakable stillness, the knowledge that mortality had ceased to be. I heard it, the quiet after the drowning. I left the room and , turning, saw for the last time, his poor, wasted face, stopped forever.
I didn't visit his body in the funeral parlour. I took the clothes that they would dress him in for his coffin. His brown work suit, an old tie, a shirt with a frayed collar and mismatched socks. It was inconsequential, who would see...
The funeral was as perfect as a funeral could be . A testament to the work we had done together. I presented and he lay beside me in his cardboard coffin, silent support as usual.
I would like to think that he was there, that he heard it all, saw the flowers and approved but I think not.
Roy's going was just that. He left the room and I have waited for him to return so that we could get on with our lives but now, sixty nine days later, I know he will not. We who were so solid, so real are not us any more, there is only me and I am so lonely that I want to die too.
Roy you took the easy option. You broke your promise and you left me.
To me blogs fall into two main categories, the failed attempt at penmanship or, worse, the product of self indulgence, a self esteem boost or inner solace requirement. Mine is the latter, I have no excuse, I need a outlet for my self pitying wallowing.............
Roy died sixty nine days ago.
This day, sixty nine days before was the last day that I held his hand, kissed him, felt his skin, watched the breathe leave his body for the last time. The final silence that accompanies death, the unmistakable stillness, the knowledge that mortality had ceased to be. I heard it, the quiet after the drowning. I left the room and , turning, saw for the last time, his poor, wasted face, stopped forever.
I didn't visit his body in the funeral parlour. I took the clothes that they would dress him in for his coffin. His brown work suit, an old tie, a shirt with a frayed collar and mismatched socks. It was inconsequential, who would see...
The funeral was as perfect as a funeral could be . A testament to the work we had done together. I presented and he lay beside me in his cardboard coffin, silent support as usual.
I would like to think that he was there, that he heard it all, saw the flowers and approved but I think not.
Roy's going was just that. He left the room and I have waited for him to return so that we could get on with our lives but now, sixty nine days later, I know he will not. We who were so solid, so real are not us any more, there is only me and I am so lonely that I want to die too.
Roy you took the easy option. You broke your promise and you left me.
