It's Where I Want To Be Buried

Next door's pussy cat  - taking up residence next to the first weird and wonderful creature that my husband made for our garden. I miss our pussy cat.

After we drop off our lovely visitors from Switzerland at Exeter station my husband says he wants to go to that funeral place up the hill.

Do you mean a cemetery?

I don't know what it's called but it's where I want to be buried.

I didn't know he'd been thinking about it. He takes us to a cemetery I've never been to before.

We drive through the gates and up a short avenue of huge conifers and park in the shade by the small church which is locked up. It's such a peaceful oasis of quiet stillness in the middle of the city, bramble lined paths leading through the graves, up the hill and beyond into more woodland. We pass a cleared area of  little graves stuck with brightly coloured whirring plastic windmills. My husband says they are all for children. He has been here many times before. 

Not that I'm thinking of dying just yet, you understand, he says.

I try and imagine him not being here. He hugs me ......but I wish he'd hold me for longer so I can imbed it in my cells -  the big feel of his arms around me.

The dying doesn't seem real - or important somehow - it's the living that keeps hurting. My husband says he didn't understand eighty percent of the conversations over the last two days with our Swiss, German friends.  Just too much talking.

 Better to spend time in the embrace of these beautiful giant trees - they don't need answering.