A Draught At My Back

The sun falling out of the sky. Portugal December 2015. I thought we'd have more time.

All day my sister and I work on the order of service, and sending out the details of the funeral.

I take breaks to make us hot chocolate, scrambled eggs. And to have small crying breakdowns. It can be anything that poleaxes me....something nice someone writes in a card....the bottle of smoothie in the fridge he never finished....his empty wallet in the top drawer of the dresser....his winter dressing gown still on the hook on the back of the bedroom door.....his smile in a photo.

Later I drive to Waitrose to buy chocolates for my brother -in - law who had his 70th birthday on the day Robin died. Everyone looks as if they are having normal lives.....doing their shopping, complaining about the prices, getting cross with their children.... looking harassed or tired or happy.....anticipating the weekend..... without this great empty chasm  inside them.

In the kitchen tonight I stand at the counter, eat a fillet of poached salmon, straight out of the packet, tearing off pieces with my fingers.

I keep having this feeling of a draught at my back.... some kind of protection of a role I took for granted has been swept away....the state of being married...having a husband.  Even though in the last few years Robin couldn't be a husband, couldn't even hug me, and I took on everything that he used to do....and even though I've been living on my own for the last 4 weeks....I still felt like one of two....that somehow he still had my back in the way he loved me. Even though he couldn't do anything he was still here.

Now he's not here and there is a cold draught all around me. Robin-shaped holes everywhere I look.