Silence

The house is empty of all people for the first time in a while. The Girl is organizing the leaflet for her father's funeral, The Boy is off with a friend on their motorcycles (they are starting their own club called The Dead Dads which is, perhaps a step forward from the t-shirts we were thinking of printing with "How the F... do you think I am????") and I am here, on my own.

A friend came this morning and, in her grief and frustration with this unbelievable new reality, complained about her partner. Another friend called - somehow not being caught in the web of emails and phone calls - to ask how The Senior Boy was doing. The taxes must be paid. There are beautiful floral arrangements all over this house. We need to get a box. And new ink for the printer. I have a new hat: black organza with a wide brim. If I were 6' instead of 5', it would be striking; as it is, I look like a smallish black umbrella with a flower for confusion. It will be my black armband in this world which thinks that grief is unseemly and to be done with as soon as possible.

How am I going to do this?

One breath, one moment at a time.



I keep waiting to hear the bike roar around the circle and into the garage, to see blue eyes, the moustached kiss.