....to sell my place of safety.

This afternoon.

Brown envelope arrives in the post.

Fat package from solicitors re sale of our house.

My house now.

Selling it without Robin.

He did it all.

Pages and pages to read 

and understand.

Terms of business

at  £210 per hour.

Questions about the house - 

any covenants, boundary disputes ?

Questions about the fixtures and fittings - 

is the dishwasher included?

 Easy - I haven't got a dishwasher.

What about my patio pots?

But dismantling my home

in writing,

ticking columns,

un-ownig it

is difficult.

If I sign and send these forms

there is no going back.

I delay....

seek comfort in a plate of garlicky rice and peas and  green olive oil,

in a bowl of raspberries

 which I eat like sweets

with my fingers,

in a glass of Robin's

sloe gin,

numbing me with clear ruby

memories.

In an episode of Lewis

 on TV.

All brief consolation.

Nothing will

dull the sharp shard of 

truth 

still waiting for me in the brown envelope.

To agree to sell

my place of safety.

Nowhere 

to hide

 now that my past- 

the life I knew

and loved - 

can no longer 

be

my refuge.