Sunday late afternoon I walk in swirling low mist by the River Exe, along an avenue of beeches past the cemetery, playing fields, pylons, water meadows, ducks and people with dogs. It's always better outside, in the air.
Today I am brimful of tears. They just leak out while I lie prone in lovely gentle yoga session ....when an old friend hugs me ....when I'm having second helpings of unctions roast potatoes in noisy cafe in Totnes....when I'm browsing through a selection of spectacular hand threaded beaded jewellery this evening .....when another old friend hugs me.
They ask me how I am. I've no idea what to say. I don't know how I am. Except I'm not myself.
Tonight I feel my hug-free space icy as the north wind blowing through all the cracks in my heart. I can't find a shard of comfort anywhere.... imagining the arms which will never hold me again.....nothing else will do.
But nothing is what I have. In the arm department anyway. His arms.
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