The saddest light coming into my kitchen, reflecting in the laptop screen where I see my left shoulder, and a little bit of the sky framed by the window, birds occasionally flying across.
Every time we say goodbye I die a little. The daffodils are beginning to curl at the edges. Late afternoon, the slowest time of the day. Friday. The end of another week. And almost the end of the saddest month. The month with no true end this year. Truncated at 28 days, suddenly it will be March, and this is good, always, but something will have been lost again.
I'll be with my Mum this weekend and we probably won't talk about it much, and it has seldom been planned, but it's amazing how many times we have ended up together at the end of February. Just keeping company as it goes by. My father so long gone now - 23 years - it is hard to find out what the anniversary might be. The danger of suicide is it becomes the most memorable thing a person has done. But I'll read the letters to my Mum, and perhaps we can remember some good stuff together, though this is of course not uncomplicated territory.
3 comments:
I hope the time passes well. Give her my best and take good care of yourself.
March is coming. The sun is on its way.
Hamlet, remembering his father:
"He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again."
Oh dear, poor you and your mum.
The letters, though, give the impression of vibrant life. He clearly was quite a chap.
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