Plenty of Time

6th December 2011 Tuesday

Back from lovely sister-time in Portugal with freckles on my shoulders and lemons the size of small grapefruit in my bag.

Tonight with rain lashing against the windows and the central heating turned up I’m struggling to hold in my cells the memory of wide blue skies and white painted houses, the hard sand under my toes and the smell of salty grilled bream in the shade.

Although he wasn’t there I carried my father with me - a constant rolling wave crashing on the beach of my mind - wondering, wondering about him - and with the help of my dear sisters - starting the long journey of letting him go.

Yesterday, my hand on his back, I walked with him from his chair to the door - another kind of long slow journey - one step at a time, one swollen foot in a blue velcroed slipper in front of the other.

‘I’m sorry I’m holding you up’, he says.

‘Not at all,’ I say,’ I’ve got plenty of time.’

Which is true. If only I could wear it well - a necklace of precious moments strung into forever.

Now it’s the time to take the flapjack out of the oven - Christmas flapjack - with a layer of last year’s mincemeat sandwiched between the oaty mixture. An experimental recipe and a way to stop my husband eating the mincemeat out of the jar before I get a chance to cook it.