blurred timeline

I wish I could write you an accent. Wait, let me try…

I could see her coming, out her door, as I was parking.  She was doing that afternoon thing of farewelling her son.

‘Annnnie’ she swooped and folded me in. ‘WHAT could you doooo? What could you DOOOO?’  Tears I must have been saving for days… ‘She’s in hevun now, she’s in hevun’.

She limped her arthritic joints back into her house.  My afternoon took a decidedly darker turn – grief rears its’ ugly head in unexpected moments, doesn’t it.

The smell of her perfume? makeup? soap or face cream? or just her Malteseness, stayed with me for hours, her crush replayed with each waft, and accompanied by fresh tears.

First sighting of the neighbours post bereavement – check. It should get easier…

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