His Life Lived In Ink and My Own Heart

In Robin's office on the top floor of the house.  On the mantelpiece above the fireplace is his portrait by Rachel Jamieson, Robin as a baby, a collage of our visit to  New Zealand in 2014....Mount Cook in the background.

 He kept everything neat and tidy, in order and organised.  And now it's such a mess as I have started to sort and clear it. I've taken everything out of the drawers and cupboards. Each paper clip, each photograph, each cheque book stub, each CD with his handwriting on it....I need to make a decision about.

 And I haven't gone anywhere near all his diaries and notes and innermost thoughts and insights and angst and his personality, his humour on paper, in box files.... his life lived and written in ink. I keep thinking he won't write anything ever again.

Today I armour myself with resolution to be gentle. I stay with the easy stuff.... fill black plastic bags with reams of bank statements and old receipts, and account ledgers. The figures on the pages reflecting all the effort of his work, his commitment, his care and his promise to look after me. I'm drenched in gratitude ....

And

 when I feel wrapped too tightly

 in the memory of him, 

in the ending of him,

 all his things surrounding me

 on the carpet,

 on the desk,

 on the walls,

 I go downstairs into the garden,

 where the patio stones are still warm

 under my bare feet

and I sit with a glass of cold wine

and listen 

to the evening 

settling down

on the grass

and the leaves

and the petals 

of the begonias.

And hear 

my own heart

thrumming.