18th January 2013
It didn’t settle for long, our snow. A thin icing on our picnic table. I was supposed to be in the company of my lovely sisters today, sorting through boxes and albums of old family photos. But all of us are under the weather. So I took my headache to bed and stayed under the duvet while my husband ventured out to his painting class in a village hall off the A38, off piste, slushy but not frozen.
Later he brought me a cup of tea, his hands still icy cold, and climbed under the covers with me while I read Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman - a 60th birthday present. I felt too old and foggy to get my head around the 5th wave of feminism and started to think about the golden sweet potato and pumpkin soup in the fridge instead....
A year ago today we buried my father in red Devon clay the colour of African dust after the rains....
No comments:
Post a Comment