Lighting Candles

On the way to the park this morning. The trees are mostly bare of their leaves now. Bright and cold.  I was so happy to see the sweet robin who flew down from a tree by the pond right to my feet. My fingers froze before I could take any more photos.

It was going to be leek and potato soup but I found lots of old veggies in the bottom of the fridge. I meant to give them to the neighbours before I left but forgot. It was my supper and lunch for the next few days. Soup isn't really cooking for one.

This afternoon Robin's aunty and I sit on hard pews in a very cold church, St Paul's, in Honiton.  A service for the recently bereaved, organised by the very lovely funeral directors who arranged Robin's funeral. The same family who also took my parents' funerals. They were efficient, warm, respectful and sensitive every time.

Half way through the service we all file up to the front, take little red candles from a basket, light them from a taper held by the priest, and lay them on the white cloth of the alter. A long line of flickering remembrance flames. Honouring the dead.

 Except every now and again I slip into another shadow world where I imagine he's still alive. And he's standing next to me now, lighting his own candle. For the people he loved and lost. Maybe he is with them now. 

I hope so because he's not here with me.

The last time I was in St Paul's in Honiton was in January 2010 when my father was signing copies of his autobiography, Zambia Stole My Heart.

I'd never have guessed that the next time would be six years later, to light a candle for my dead husband.