One-Handed

A  sweet Robin at Dartington today,

the sun hides the truth of the ice in the wind.

He doesn't seem to notice the cold. Just very pleased to see us.

6am. The sound of scratching wakes me. I recognise it as someone scraping ice off their windscreen in the street outside.

Snow on the lawn. Just at smattering. White chunks on the surface soil of the patio pots.

I dread the cold. But not nearly as much as I used to dread waking up. How to face another day with Robin and his illness.

Today  we remember him, a dear friend and I, as we walk around the grounds of Dartington Hall. And all the other times we shared. And that last time we were here and Robin wanted to go back to the car after a short time and we persuaded him to walk a little further across the field and through the gate. I think now how I could have listened to him more - not made him go further than he wanted to.

But that's just taking a walk down the long lane of regrets which I'm trying not to do.

I'm always dropping one of my gloves when I stop to take photos. Luckily I usually realise in time and go back and retrieve it -  often covered in mud. Robin was good at spotting it, in a hedgerow, on a path...sometimes it was both of them.

There I go again...he's so woven into the fabric of my life.....I don't know how to do  this one-handed. 

One glove on. One glove lost. Waiting to be found.

Or safe to let it go?