"Bereavement" (Ann Lewin"Waiting for the Kingfisher"
Dark place
Where, vulnerable, alone,
We lick the wounds of loss.
Wise friends say little,
But hold us in their love,
And listen.
There are no guarantees,
Only reports from those
Who've been there.
That there is hope,
And life persists."
The words above say it far better for me than words of my own.
I lit an early morning candle for Judith in the Cathedral, a place about which, working professionally for the diocese, she had very mixed feelings. It helped me anyway.
It's the little things I miss - teasing her that everything has to match - toilet rolls, towels, soap, washing up liquid - who on earth matches their washing up liquid to the colour of their kitchen? Judith did.
Hearing her voice in my head, quietly and sanely responding. Walking on Dartmoor - crossing a river on a sluice gate because "the map says there is a path" and me saying "but it isn't on the ground" The retort was a cross "well it should be" I couldn't argue but we ended up wringing out socks and tipping out boots after ploughing through sodden marshy ground the other (safely path strewn) side of the river.
Listening to the endless search for an impossible item of clothing - straight trousers in a year of flappy wide ones, white sandals (!) in a year of navy blue. And wondering who else cleans window frames on an evening when you could be sitting in the garden with a book?
I think it will be standing room only at her funeral.
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